Dragon Age: Original Sins
by Aerith and Bob
Summary: Two authors do a Round-Robin. f!Mahariel/Al, f!Tabris/Zevs. Warning! This fic may contain the following: contrived slapstick, self-absorbed angst, violent violence, corny romance, drunken groping, gritty social realism and everything in between.
1. Discoveries In Denerim Market

A/N: _Hello and welcome! Roonya here, this fic is a joint effort from two DA-crazy friends who write alternate chapters. I will be handling the odd-numbered chapters. Our story follows a female Dalish Warden and female city elf non-Warden, with the main romantic interests as Alistair and Zevran. Note that I use italics occasionally to relay the current character's thoughts. Also we've chosen to ignore certain game restraints, for instance the party maximum of four (further on in the story), because it seemed more realistic to us. _

_We no own Bioware's stuff._

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><p>It was morning already. Alistair could not remember the last time he had stayed awake all night, simply unable to get his thoughts under control. Of course there had been many a night when the Song invaded his thoughts and prevented him from sleeping, but last night, the ever-present threat of the Blight seemed to have been overtaken in importance by more personal considerations.<p>

He was aware that continuing to entertain this manner of thinking could be dangerous in its indulgence, yet at the same time he wanted to slap the dutiful Grey Warden in him and tell him to pursue his own happiness for once. It was as if his eyes had been opened: he saw that most of his life had been governed by powers outside his control, and it was time for that to end. Admittedly, right now there was a Blight to cull, but, as far as his beliefs went, he only had one life and he was determined to make the best of it.

His thoughts were not entirely selfish. Far from it. Naturally, the feelings he held for his fellow Grey Warden dominated a lot of the thinking he did, besides of course wondering when their next meal would be. Having been around her almost constantly since Ostagar, he had not failed to notice her many attractive qualities. However, every time he allowed his mind to wander on the topic of her, it always led to a reminder of his ineptitude and he once again had to delay the prospect of telling her how he felt. She did seem to enjoy a spot of light flirting with him, that was for sure, but Lys was a difficult elf to read. Besides, reading people was generally not one of Alistair's strong points.

The unfolding of yesterday's events had been unexpected to say the least. When their party had happened upon the home of Alistair's half-sister in the Denerim market district, conflicting emotions of excitement and panic brought forth dozens of questions in his head - _How should I introduce myself? Do we resemble each other? Does she even know I exist?_ - and with each quickening heartbeat he became increasingly incapable of speaking at a normal pace.

'Do I seem a little nervous? I am, I really don't know what to expect, I'd like you to be there with me, if you're willing... Or we could leave, I suppose! We really don't have time to pay a visit, do we, maybe we should go...'

'Alistair.' Her unflinching stare compelled him to meet her eyes, although he could only maintain the contact for an instant.

'My sister...' he went on, 'It sounds very strange. Sister... Seees-teeerr.' As he fought to control his verbal diarrhoea the darned elf walked straight up to Goldanna's door, rapped her knuckles smartly on the aged wood, and waited patiently for it to open.

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><p>'Well that was... I can't believe it. I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn't that what family is supposed to do? I... I feel like a complete idiot.' The hollowness of his tone cut through her, making her ache to draw him into an embrace.<p>

She checked herself. _Creators, not now._ She sighed sadly. 'Everyone is out for themselves, Alistair. At least, nearly everyone. You should learn that.'

'I guess you're right, judging from that ugly display. I feel so... confused. You must think me dreadfully naïve.' He paused then, as if debating internally whether or not to ask her something. '...Do you have any family? I mean, if you don't mind my asking. It's strange how little I know about you...'

'Well, that's because I don't offer out details about myself freely. If you really want to know, however...'

'I do.'

Lys thought about it. No simple answer there. 'Yes and no. My father was slain when I was an infant, my real mother disappeared not long afterwards. She who raised me yet lives with my clan, or so I trust. The clan is a family. Or was... my family.' She shook her head slightly. 'I'd rather not speak of it.'

'Right. I'm just trying to understand. When Goldanna spoke to us like that... it does seem like all she wanted was money.' He rubbed the place on his forehead where shallow lines formed.

'From what I've seen of human society, most care little for anything outside their own personal circle...' Lys waved her hand lamely towards the market stalls; a movement that she knew made little sense. She wondered fleetingly whether she was becoming more human in her mannerisms, despite herself.

'I have to admit I agree, as much as it saddens me,' he replied. His quiet words had moved her. This revelation was like a loss of innocence for him, in a way.

'You don't need that woman in your life, Alistair. Blood is not the best adhesive anyway,' a smirk flickered across her lips as she attempted to distract him from his bitter disappointment. 'I think Duncan alone should have proved that to you.' She suddenly found herself regretting this path of conversation as soon as she had embarked upon it. Alistair was now staring steadily at an unremarkable pebble in the gutter, unblinking. His face was set in a grim expression. _Is he fighting back tears again?_ She tensed her abdomen in discomfort.

'I... I mean, I'm sorry it turned out this way.'

Somewhere inside her the Dalish pride cringed at saying sorry to a human, but on the outside she reached out, hesitantly, towards a gauntleted hand, searching his face for anything other than anguish. After a moment, he seemed to regain some composure, and she nudged him gently. 'Let's track down the others and get ourselves fed. Come on.'

She half turned to go, but he remained unmoving. With voice both hoarse and tender, he added, 'Lys, before we go, can I just say… thank you?' He finally tore his eyes away from the gutter and met hers once more.

She said nothing.

'For supporting me in there. Even though it turned out to be a waste of time.' He looked almost painfully apologetic.

She sighed once more. 'At least now you don't have to wonder. Don't thank me – actually I came very close to showing her what I thought of her, as well as telling her.' She tightened her fists in recollection. 'The Dalish have a word for one such as her. _Asha seth'lin_, "woman of thin blood". To me it is a terrible thing to call a person, though I doubt such a phrase bears the same impact in the common tongue.'

Something behind her seemed to catch his eye, and he was distracted from replying.

'Uh, we have company,' he managed eventually. Her head snapped around, but the interrupter was just a cheery Leliana. She wore an enigmatic sort of smile as she sauntered up to them.

'Still here? Well you are finished now, no? Let us return to the tavern together, Zevran's banter was getting out of hand. I daresay it seems even Wynne felt flustered.' Lys noted with mild irritation an unmistakable glint in her eyes – which told Lys that her motive for seeking them out may have been other than the one she gave. Although, that was not to say she wouldn't put it past the Antivan.

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><p>He sought her out during the sobering lull between the regular drinkers leaving for their homes and the silence of the deep night. As he expected, she was delaying turning in for bed with what seemed to be her favourite evening pastime: meticulously examining her elven blades for new nicks and faults, and beeswaxing her longbow. She was kneeling on the floor, facing away from the room's entrance. He always liked seeing her in the freer clothing she wore in these moments of respite, though its appeal was quite different from that of her minimalistic Dalish armour. This style made her look more approachable and it set him at ease.<p>

'Don't you ever take a break?' he said.

Naturally, she was not caught off her guard. He had learnt by now that she didn't need to see him coming to know he was there, even though he was presently relieved of his giveaway clunky gear. He had not thought to knock because her door was already open, a fact which might have struck him as odd had his mind not been so preoccupied. She made no reply, but he was used to her reservedness.

'You seem to really enjoy doing that,' he observed.

She manoeuvred around before sitting back down on her heels, her brow furrowed. 'I think of it as solace. Many, many beings have now been slain by these tools, living and dead, and the killing is far from over. Many deserved it of course, for others it was unfortunate, but nonetheless I tire of being the one to deliver them. This helps me, somehow.'

Alistair wasn't sure if she'd ever spoken so many consecutive words to him. He didn't know how to respond, so he just watched for a moment while she scratched off a speck of some stubborn substance from her bow before proceeding over the patch with the wax.

She glanced in his direction without pausing in her work and spoke, 'Surely you've not come here just to watch me polish my equipment. You don't seem the voyeuristic type...'

He broke into a bashful grin. 'Well, no, admittedly.' He moved to kneel down opposite her, an impish smile brightening his eyes. 'You know, I've been thinking...' He paused, trying to find the right words.

She raised one eyebrow. 'A rare event worth informing me of, I'm sure.'

'Oh, ha ha, very funny. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about today.' At this she did stop and pay full attention. 'You told me I needed to look out for myself more than I do. I need to stop letting everyone else make my decisions for me. I need to take a stand and think about myself for a change, or I'm never going to be happy.'

Lys smiled broadly at him, and the weariness all but left her eyes. He was struck by how attractive she looked, pulling this smile out of nowhere - he was far more familiar with her lopsided smirk. He decided he liked both.

'It's about time.' She directed her attention back to the bow in her lap but the pretty smile lingered on, and he could not deny his excitement knowing that it was he who had put it there. It encouraged him.

'I should have done it a long time ago.' They knelt in comfortable silence for a while, until he decided he couldn't bear it any longer. 'So, all this time we've spent together... you know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the Blight looming over us... will you miss it when it's over?'

She looked up from her task, a dubious look on her face. '_Miss it_? Oh, of course. Are you getting at something, Alistair?'

He gulped. 'I know... it might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I have come to... care for you. A great deal.' He tried to sound confident and firm, but as she looked up into his eyes, it was hard not to waver. 'Lys, I wanted to say, meeting you is the one bright spot out of everything that's happened.'

It appeared that her bow no longer held any interest for her. She had raised her head with a slight jerk and a wayward lock of blonde landed between some of her eyelashes. She stared at him questioningly for a second, and all at once he became aware of how small the distance was between them, and he reached out to tuck away said lock of hair, leaving a trembling hand on her pointed ear. The effect this innocent gesture had on her was quite extraordinary. Then again, he could probably count on one hand how many times there had been physical contact between them. The continued eye contact was electrifying.

Her lips found his. As she leaned into the kiss his hand brushed over her ear and rested lightly in her hair, rough fingers cradling her head. His other hand lay limp in his lap, forgotten by him, until she took it and guided it towards her waist. Their lips moved with lustful urgency. She raised herself from sitting on her heels and leant slightly over him, betraying the extent of her desire in a small way. The bow had thunked off her lap onto the stone floor, though it went unheard.

Her hands came to rest around his neck, and Alistair responded by shifting his arms further around her, pulling her body gently in until their torsos were almost touching, but not quite. He was not so bold, though he cursed himself for it.

He needn't have. Lys was lost to the kiss. She threw caution to the wind and delicately touched her tongue to his lips, causing him to open his eyes, partly in surprise, partly because of the sudden wave of arousal that the tiny movement had instigated in him. Because she sensed that he had opened his eyes she did the same, and pulled back a few inches from his face to gauge if she had done wrong.

He guessed that the look on his face quickly reassured her, even though he was momentarily unable to tell her as much. As if remembering who she was, she took back her arms from around his neck, reluctantly, and sat back down on her heels. Her unfocused gaze settled on her weapons, sprawled on the floor around them.

He made a lame attempt to clear his throat, and grinned stupidly at her. 'What... exactly just happened?'

'Something...'

She was adorable in her confusion. He made to lean in again, his eyes closed, scared to wake from what must surely be a dream. But the reality of the bedroom around them must have rung alarm bells in her head, because she placed her hands on his linen-clad chest to stop him gently.

'Alistair… You had best get yourself to your own room, else I fear neither of us will get any rest tonight.'

Now he was genuinely embarrassed. _That was abrupt._

'I didn't mean—I'm—...Not that I...' _Note to self: stop talking__. _'I'll... see you tomorrow.' __Obviously. __

'Yes, good night.'

Alistair got up and walked to the exit in a daze, closing the door softly behind him.


	2. Cider in Yer Pants

AN: _wat up ma bredrins, Freyja here, rollin in on my chariot pulled by cats. ill be writing the alternate, even chapters, following non-warden Tabris and her adventures as she joins up with Lys & co. ive assumed that the reader is familiar wit the city elf origin, as i refer to it but don't go thru it. obvs its a bit diff as Crissy doesnt become a warden and that. enjoy._

_..and remember kids: get buzzed, get drunk, get crunk, get fuuuuuuuucked up! ;)_

_This fic is rated M and contains very strong language and scenes some readers may find upsetting._

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><p>"You're having a laugh." Incredulous, Cristiana peered down at the age-darkened barrel and wondered how on Maker's earth she was going to fit inside. Leaving the alienage was a lot easier if you didn't have the whole of Denerim's armed patrol scouting you out for killing the Arl's son (and accompanying attendants).<p>

"Don't you have anything a bit newer, or larger?" The purple-faced elf responsible for driving the wagon, which carried the shipment of cider out of the alienage, stared back silently. The stream of good-for-nothing petty criminals he'd snuck out of the alienage – and yet they all had to complain about the damned barrel.

"Or any barrel slightly less skank than this one?" Crissy nervously eyed the bubbly grey scum around the rim.

"Do you even have a rag to dry up the slime? No? Oh well I suppose my arse will do a good enough job. Give us a hand then." Crissy steeled herself and climbed into the container, while the driver assisted by pressing his clammy palms down on her head; she scratched at him irritably before shivering in disgust as the sloshing mess at the bottom of the barrel seeped coldly into her underwear. Bent double, she waited on the sound of dawn bells which would spur the wagon's departure: it was an age away, and she found it hard to block out the images of recent carnage at the Arl's estate. When Cristiana awoke on the date of her wedding she had no idea how the morning would give way to such a profoundly horrific day.

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><p>"I think just one more would do it." Crissy nodded at her cousin, but Shianni was hesitant.<p>

"I think two pairs is enough Crissy, not all men are into that you know – and remember your family are going to be there."

"Shianni, all men are breast men, now pick up that last pair of socks and get stuffing."

Stuck in the barrel, Crissy fondly recalled such innocent times, when the journey to Highever seemed like the most terrifying thing in the world. Her memory, however, could not help but move forward to the fateful scene of Shianni cracking the bottle over Vaughan's head. Alienage elves were well versed in humans taking liberties, but it had gone too far for Shianni. It made Crissy think even further back, a few years ago, when the two were on one of their many illicit excursions out of the alienage at dark, to enjoy the city's varied and exuberant nightlife.

Throughout their adolescence – in the seedier parts of Denerim where no one would grass them up to the authorities – the two cousins and sometimes their neighbour Cerissa would enjoy drink, music and company more exciting than the equivalent offering in the conservative claustrophobia of the alienage. Now when she looked back at those youthful outings she flinched at the potential dangers which were left unconsidered at the time. Any of those drunken men with whom they had flirted and teased might have trailed one of them home in the dark and exacted consummation for lustful longings kindled by false touches, leaving a freshly gutted corpse in the dirt after the pleasures had been taken.

One night Cristiana had been mesmerised by the attentions of a foreign young man newly arrived in Ferelden. Leonine with golden hair and beard, he cut a splendid figure, draped in the deepest blue. The silly girl was instantly lovesick, dreaming up his provenance as some heir to an overseas throne, searching Denerim for a girl worthy of his affection. Meanwhile Shianni, involuntarily vigilant, had noticed with increasing anxiety that a sallow man with glittering blue eyes had continued to glance at her all night. She had also noticed the young man's beefy escorts growing impatient with the interaction between him and Cristiana.

"I think we should go, Cris." she whispered, her thumb pressing urgently into the older girl's wrist.

"Your friend is not happy?"

"Oh, she's fine and dandy." Crissy shook off Shianni's hand and continued the conversation. Soon enough, and to Shianni's relief, the man's bulky entourage surrounded their glamorous ward; there was an exchange in their native language.

The blonde man addressed Cris again, "I make the most sincere apologies as I must take my leave." He smiled and bowed, "Fare thee well, fairest Cressida." Cristiana tingled at the flavour of his accent and tried to prolong the meeting by insisting that she learn the whole of the entourage's names to give them all a proper goodbye. Impatient, Shianni strode outside, fuming at Cristiana's infatuation with this stranger. When Crissy finally made it out she daydreamed all the way home, ignoring Shianni's rattled state.

"Maybe I'll change my name to Cressida – it's basically the same, but it sounds so much more..._exotic_. Nini? Shianni you dope are you even listening?"

"I'm really tired Cris, let's just get home quick."

"Yeah 'course – but can you try calling me Cress for a while? I mean, I know it's a plant we grow in the kitchen, but if I say it's foreign, people will be well impressed. Wait 'til I tell Cerissa what she missed, she'll be so jealous."

It wasn't until a couple of years later that Shianni told Cristiana what had happened while she had waited outside. The man with the shining blue eyes had materialised in front of Shianni, leaning his sinewy length up against her to paralyse her body against the wall, his rotten breath caressing the soft skin of her face.

"You shouldn't be out in the city at night, it's dangerous."

"Take your fucking hands off me–" A damp hand clamped over her face, blackened fingernails crushing the plumpness of her cheek, while the other scraped up under her skirt, bypassing the flimsy protection offered by her underwear.

He licked his widening lips, "Your tight cunt is wet for me, you little whore."

As his moistened fingertips retreated to drag her away from the entrance, a loud group of mercenaries appeared around corner, heading to the tavern. The man evaporated as quickly as he had arrived. From then Shianni swore she wouldn't be helpless with terror if a man tried to abuse her again: no longer would she rely on luck.

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><p>The dawn bells rang out from the Chantry and Cristiana felt the wagon jerk into movement, sending a stinging shock through her body. After a few agonising minutes as the wagon rolled forward, fear exploded in her stomach when she heard the sound of the guards issuing unnegotiable orders to the driver that every barrel must opened: there was a Bann-killer on the loose. Hearing the guards levering open the other barrels in the cart, Cristiana sucked down a final gulp of putrid air before slamming her palms up against the lid, bursting out of the barrel. Her escape however did not unfold as dashingly as she had imagined. The bright sky pierced her eyes and she couldn't straighten her legs properly, nor control them much at all. Consequently, all she managed was to fall off the side of the wagon still stuck in the barrel in a half-squatting position. Squinting, Cristiana perceived the guards running towards her and she attempted to drag her encumbered body across the greasy mud with her arms. The guards then decided to stop running and instead closed the distance between them and the struggling elf with a few swaggering steps; the hilarity of the sight soon infected them all with suffocating laughter. Crissy however considered their screeching a harmonious accompaniment to the wonderful feeling of the hot blood now speeding to her every bodily extremity. Heart drumming violently, she shunted the barrel off, manoeuvred herself upright and sealed a muddied hand around the long kitchen knife wedged in her belt. Blood was torn from one man's cheek as he steadied his shield; another who was slower had the chainmail at his chest wrenched apart by the knife's point as it sliced open his lungs; her slender blade was keen to taste living flesh, the tenderness hidden beneath the bound metal.<p>

The shock of encountering an elf with martial training temporarily caused the guards to disengage. Cristiana seized her chance and skidded around, launching herself towards a dark sliver of an alley which she knew lay behind the next corner. Unfortunately her sense of direction left something to be desired and the next corner yielded nothing more than a wall which was propping up a rotting bench, black with mould, propping up in turn a similarly mouldy tramp, serenely gurgling to himself.

"Ah, bollocks."

The tramp responded to her curse affably with a snotty smile. Now in arms reach of her pursuers, Crissy stumbled into a clumsy swerve and thus somehow managed to prolong her precarious state of freedom. Thumping forward into the next street, Crissy felt quite self-satisfied as she performed a fetching stretch of a pirouette right over a child's head, much to his mother's outrage. But as soon as Cristiana felt the assurance of a successful escape scurry up through her belly, she made the amateur slip of snatching a glance from over her shoulder. Inevitably, Crissy's foot caught on some obstacle or other and her desperate dash was cut short. However, her feet quickly staggered to sort themselves out and her run once again resumed; the elf grinned down at the filth soaked boots appreciatively. This second lapse in focus was irredeemable and Cristiana slammed up brutally against an iron-clad wall. Plummeting backwards to the floor, she looked up, dazed; to her horror the wall rotated to reveal an impassive, red-eyed face – Cristiana screamed.

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><p>Lys' party stood outside the inn impatiently waiting for their single absentee.<p>

"I am unable to fathom why someone as naturally beautiful as Leliana would need so much time to get ready." Morrigan's scorn was as cold as a lamppost in winter. "Oh look, some grotty little creature is trying to fend off armed guards – her slaughter might go some way to easing the wait."

Everyone perked up, focusing on the scuffle that neared from the far end of the street.

"Erm, they seem to be heading this way, we should probably move?" Alistair tentatively edged backwards but everyone else stood still, "She's coming right towards us –Sten!"

Eyes closed, mind on higher issues, Sten had been standing, arms crossed, patiently existing. The sound of his name filtered through the irrelevant buzzing incessantly present at chest height and he sensed a mild push on his lower back. On turning he saw nothing, until a high-pitched yelp drew his attention down to a small, muddy thing sitting on the floor in front of him.

Crissy took in the horrendous sight which towered above, to notice that a gargantuan tree of a weapon emerged from the battlements of this iron-clad, stern-faced wall. Furthermore, the wall was apparently escorted by a group of well-armed companions – and a mage! No wait, two mages! ! Cristiana was not slow in recognising the opportunity, heartily subscribing to the ethos that if you don't ask, you don't get (and if asking didn't fully do the trick, then begging, deception, blackmail and so on was fine too).

"Help, I'm being persecuted!" It was the best she could come up with at short notice.

Each face was shaded with a different reaction and Cristiana deftly identified the natural empathy that flowed from the older mage, directing her wide eyes and clasped hands towards Wynne. Then her hands were yanked asunder by the guards who clenched her elbows. She was at the mercy of all that encircled her.


	3. Filthy Encounter, Fascinating Hat

'Hold it right there,' Lys began, after the second of delay needed to process the scene before her. The filthy runaway elf was on the point of being muscled away by what must have been the roughest looking guards in Denerim when Wynne pushed past Sten to halt them.

'Just what part of your masculinity do you think you are proving by manhandling this woman?' Wynne could be quite difficult to ignore when she wanted to be.

The cretins paused, but kept their grip on the elf's arms, whose backside was still inches deep in mud. Her pleading face, out of sight of the guardsmen standing above her, was very much focused on Wynne. Then, one of the more audacious guards spoke, grossly misjudging the old lady and Dalish girl, and the deadly unit to which they belonged.

'This piece of filth is a fugitive and a killer. It's none of your fucking business what we do to her! Wait... you're not allowed to carry weapons, knife ears.'

At this point the guard made a fatal mistake. He twisted around to seek support in his peer's faces before trying to arrest this heavily-armed and much more formidable elf.

'It must be the Grey Wardens!' clamoured another guard from behind.

No sooner had this shout gone up than Lys stamped down brutally on the back of the first one's knee—bringing his head down to a convenient height for decapitation—then in one smooth motion unsheathed the twin blades on her back and scissored them cleanly through the man's neck.

The rest of her party needed no further encouragement. Wynne blasted the next nearest guard backwards with a conjured fist of stone, knocking him and most of the other rabble off their feet. Complacency instantly gave way to rage and recklessness, and in their scramble to regain a defensible stance the original quarry was totally forgotten. The man who had grabbed Cristiana's left arm was savagely introduced to Asala's pommel, wielded by the indomitable Sten, who followed through with such a blow that practically split the man in two as he lay prone. The grey contents of his skull glistened sinisterly, a grim warning unheeded by all except Cristiana. Lys herself was surrounded by assailants on all sides, which suited her just fine. She felled three more with a whirlwind of steel, graceful and deadly. Morrigan hexed and drained the lifeblood from another, the man's unseeing eyes showing him to be dead before even hitting the ground.

Cris, still caught up in the fray, was evading the guards' clumsy blows as best she could until one targeted her to trip her up, but this time she instinctively transformed the momentum into a forward roll through the fool's legs, allowing Alistair to stride into the space she had vacated and dismember him before her heart had a chance to beat a second time.

Faced with such an onslaught, the couple of remaining guards cried out and fled, far too late. Lys' mabari easily closed the distance and charged them into the dirt, bounding off one to bring down the other. Leliana had finally emerged at some point during this havoc and she pinned them like that with a few well-placed arrows while the melee of the party caught up to finish the deed. An unnatural stillness claimed the murky air of the back-alley, and battle-rage ceded to disquiet.

'The word "overkill" rather comes to mind.' Alistair observed, sheathing his weapon with a satisfying swish. A glimmer of pride was audible in his voice. He rolled a corpse onto its back with his boot, inspecting the man's face. 'Stupid bastards,' he muttered under his breath.

'_Parshaara_. Must we waste time with vain bards and pointless elves?'

Everyone looked around suddenly for Cris, and a quick scan of the surroundings revealed that Sten's antipathy was not unfounded. The elf had scarpered.

Lys, infuriated, flung one of her swords into the mud, releasing a roar of annoyance. Wynne looked at her with a sympathetic expression, which served to infuriate her further, and Holm, the dog, nuzzled her now-empty palm.

Zevran, however, was visibly tickled by this apparent denouement, and couldn't help but compliment the offender. 'You have to hand it to her, that kind of brazen resourcefulness makes a man warm beneath his leathers... even if her soiled appearance perhaps did not.'

'Yes, well, not everyone appreciates being so obviously exploited,' Alistair's frown further illustrated his distaste.

'I rather hope she stumbles into us again, maybe she would care to exploit me personally...'

'I do not,' Sten interrupted flatly, 'I did not enjoy being stumbled into. Literally.'

'Who can blame her, really,' Leliana wrinkled her nose at the smell of death. 'The scene that met my eyes as I came outside would be no less than terrifying to the uninitiated.'

'Leliana, Sten is correct – we cannot wait for your hair or face or whatever it is you take so long tending to. This isn't a _shemlen_ dinner party.' Lys' criticism only made the bard laugh a hollow note as she glanced over the assembled bunch of misfits. _Shemlen_ was a word that had generally fallen out of Lys' vocabulary, but she still reserved it for the elements of humanity who really annoyed her.

'Assuredly not.' The rogue's smile had been wiped off her face, at least.

Once they had availed themselves of anything useful on the corpses, they made for the city gates. They travelled through the dank streets in staggered pairs, mingling with the city-folk, in an attempt not to attract undesirable attention after that spectacle behind the inn. Wynne went with Leliana, Morrigan with Zevran ('Ugh'), Sten with Holm, and finally Lys with Alistair. This strategy was particularly convenient for Alistair, as it presented him with another opportunity to get their leader to himself for a while.

He had been doing a lot of thinking since that sleepless night; for not only had it given him his first proper kiss, but also, strangely, the current atmosphere between him and Lys made him feel as if it had never happened. Neither of them had mentioned it. In truth, the man was dying to talk to her openly about it, but because they hadn't been out of Denerim the last couple of days there hadn't really been a chance – until now. It would have seemed presumptuous to visit in her tavern room again, as much as he may have wanted to, and the rest of the time there had always been other people around.

He watched her from a couple of steps behind, allowing her to pick their path through the throng. His mind wandered, as the many strangers and lack of conversation provided him with his own isolated bubble. Shoulders drew his stare like a magnet. For the most part he couldn't see more of her below that. _Neck._ _Creamy_. Idly, he watched the way her locks fell about the nape in the rhythm of her gait, the wispy shorter hairs sometimes showing through underneath. He imagined how it would feel to touch her again in that way, feel her warmth under his hands, see those silvery hairs stand on end. He had only experienced a small taste of her, of how she could make him feel, and he was more than eager to feel it again. _Her hair is very thick_, he thought. _Needs to be washed though_. Floating into his mind came a gratuitous image of her wet hair all lathered up, his own fingers massaging her head._ Warm water. Soap suds. Eyes closed, relaxed. One finger straying down her spine…_ Just then her head turned around, and her eyes—very much open—found his own instantly, cruelly dispelling his daydream. She was several people ahead of him. Coming to a halt, she waited for the shuffling crowd to bring him to her naturally, before they continued side-by-side.

'I felt you looking at me.' She said this so matter-of-factly, as if she had literally sensed Alistair's gaze with her skin, that he considered simply admitting it. Her directness surprised him; though forthright in most circumstances, she was usually rather reticent speaking to him, and this sudden bluntness made him ashamed at his lapse in subtlety. He felt quite transparent.

'No – I wasn't – there was actually a man with a truly fascinating hat some way past you.'

'Really? Describe it.'

_Uh-oh_. 'It was... striped. And possibly it had ...a feather.'

'What kind of feather?'

'A... red one?' Unbeknownst to Alistair, Lys was trying very hard to appear unconvinced instead of amused. 'But it was probably dyed that colour, I don't remember ever having seen a red bird in Ferelden, come to think of it.' _Maker, that sounds so stupid..._

'That does sound fascinating, truly. How strange that it escaped my notice.' Her tone was light and inconsequential, but the obvious sarcasm did not elude him.

Alistair maintained his pretence in the face of obvious failure. 'Yeees. Well, if I spot the man again I'll point him out to you, if you like.' With cheeks well coloured, he endeavoured to look straight ahead as they walked together, thus remaining unaware that she herself was grinning unrepentantly towards the ground.

* * *

><p>The topic her own mind had been reflecting on was less saucy, but it was one to which she often returned. She could never have predicted that a human man would one day be a source of such great amusement—and bemusement—for her. Since she was a small <em>da'len<em>, she had been taught that humans were despicable, malicious beings, with no feeling for anything except that which may benefit them. Furthermore, those few with whom she had come into contact in the forest upheld those tenets of her upbringing. Duncan had been the first to break this mould. He saved her life in those ancient ruins, although his ulterior motive diminished her gratitude considerably after the event. Nevertheless, he had shown honour and mercy towards her, an elf, and had treated her people respectfully, as equals even. It would be a lie to say she had liked Duncan, or even trusted him fully, the circumstances being what they were. But it was undeniable that he had challenged her preconceptions.

And in the very beginning, Alistair's playful nature was very strange to her. Her natural response was to be even more defensive than usual around him, thinking he was trying to deceive her. Eventually, however, she realised that he was harmless and became accustomed to his light-hearted conversation. In fact he was a breath of fresh air amid a hopeless landscape, and when speaking with him she felt almost as comfortable as with one of her childhood friends. Nevertheless, the boundaries between the human Alistair and herself were less clearly defined than with her fellow Dalish, and sometimes she simply didn't know how to behave around him.

What amused her most about him was how easy it was to make him squirm and falter with naught but a few well-chosen words, because this was quite unlike herself. His vulnerability, which was not obvious at first glance, drew her in. Lys had always been emotionally mature for her age, as being orphaned so young had brought out her independent streak. She had earned her hunter status at the same time as her close friend Tamlen, who was almost a year older than herself. She was also exceptionally wilful—this was something everyone knew; but lesser-known was that she could show great self-control when the situation demanded it, too. Yet although experience told her it would be wise to keep her distance from the human currently a few inches away, she took a secret pleasure in their current proximity. But not only that; she trusted him. She had realised it months ago, yet still it caused conflict within her.

A few moments and streets later they were as good as alone together. _Now or never_, thought Alistair.

He broke their silence by clearing his throat conspicuously. 'What are you thinking about? You're always so quiet.'

'Not always.' Her eyes flickered briefly over his features, trying to gauge his intention, and just as Alistair was mentally deploring her renewed evasiveness she sighed and paused in her stride, 'You... confuse me, Alistair. That's all,' and she started to move on.

There were a great many things he was hoping she might reply with, many of them extremely unlikely, but this response wasn't one of them. He tried to keep his manner playful.

'That is most certainly _not_ all. You can't just say that and leave me hanging! In what way do I confuse you?' The man didn't know what to make of her, either. One moment, she showed him passion and warmth, the next, she had reverted to her enigmatic and reserved ways.

She was avoiding his gaze, looking anywhere but at him as she seemed to be deciding what to say, and after a second of awkwardness he put himself on the line instead.

'Look, ever since we kissed, something's felt... I don't know, different, between us. Please don't take offence but you seem more serious. Distant, even. It's like I felt I was just getting to know you and then...' He swallowed, and lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper, 'I told you how I feel about you. But I don't know how you feel. And I'd really like to know.'

At this, her neutral expression finally relented, and her eyes took on a softness that made him weak.

'I'm sorry if I've given you the wrong impression. If anything is different since that night, it is how I perceive myself. I never in my life imagined that I would kiss a human… '

Behind his armoured exterior, his heart felt a pang of fear. 'So, why did you kiss me?'

She thought about it for a moment, looking up at his worried face. 'I don't know. I wanted to. You... touched me. I wasn't expecting it.' Her eyes glazed over, as if not seeing him, and unconsciously she reproduced the action of tucking back some stray hair.

He lifted a gauntlet to touch her cheek, holding it there until she focused on him again. Her green eyes could give away much to someone familiar with her looks – uncertainty, longing, regret. Alistair saw in them her ambivalence but he could not decipher it. He couldn't possibly, not without knowing her past, and in this moment, he wished more than anything that he could understand what she was feeling. On the other hand, he didn't think it a good idea to press her. He doubted she would respond well to that.

'That's a bit of a strange answer. So if I touch you like that whenever you're not expecting it, do you think I'd be granted the same result?'

She managed a voiceless 'Heh' and pulled out his favourite smirk. 'We... we should keep moving, we're not too far from the city gates now.' The elf backed away and impressed upon him a meaningful look as she turned away.

* * *

><p>Raised eyebrows were exchanged as the final pair hastily strode up to rejoin the others, and Lys felt like the only one not judging her was the dog. It agitated her.<p>

'What? How long have you been here?'

Leliana answered casually. 'Oh, a while. Morrigan ditched Zevran when he talked incessantly about her cleavage so he caught up with me and Wynne to bother us instead,' she glared briefly in the assassin's direction. 'Anyway, I asked for directions so it didn't take us long. How the others got here before us is a mystery to me.' Holm cocked his head and whined at Sten, an unfathomable look passing between them as Leliana continued, 'What was it that delayed you two?'

Lys pointedly ignored her prying. 'Nice to know that you all ignore my instructions should the mood strike you. And I do hope that whoever was friendly enough to give you the directions doesn't send someone unfriendly after us.'

'It was nothing out of the ordinary, I'm sure he wouldn't have told the guards about us. It was just an innocent request for information.' Leliana frowned.

Without missing a beat Zevran quipped, 'Then here is another: how innocent do you feel fluttering your eyelashes in the face of a pubescent boy, so that he practically offers to carry you to your destination? He may not have told any guards, but I'd bet my rear end that he told his mother and anyone else who would listen. Such double standards, I tell you.'

'It's not double standards, Zevran, that boy behaved very politely, whereas you—'

'Oh please spare us!' Morrigan cut in icily. 'If we don't leave this place this instant I'm going to have to harm one of them.'

'I suppose we wouldn't want that…' the Dalish muttered under her breath. 'No need, we're leaving now. We go south, to the Brecilian Forest.' An imperious bark from Holm backed her up and he bounded on ahead as everyone else took up their packs.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _You're hot then you're cold, you're yes then you're no... lalala_

_Thanks for reading/adding to alerts! Means a lot :) And sorry there's not much Zev love yet. Good things come to those who offer us cake.  
><em>


	4. Andraste's Holy Socks!

When a brimming larder and yielding bed were only some minutes away, sneaking out of the alienage at night was a familiar adventure with safe boundaries. Being reduced to a dirty, thirsty fugitive with all of Ferelden looming before her was not Crissy's idea of fun. Debating what direction to take, Crissy gave no thought to her recent luck at being saved by a passing group of amazingly adept yet seemingly benevolent warriors. In fact she was glad she had managed to escape them before they had demanded any payment – whether in gold, or worse, service. The dangerous, unwashed life of a mercenary was not her calling. Highever was still her goal, her intent to stay with some extended family until she found another chance at marriage, else she end up like her spinster aunt Gorthil. A dusty throat, however, was her immediate priority and so Cristiana wandered into the nearby woodland, where she supposed a stream or suchlike might be found – after all, she reflected, the forest-people had to drink something. At this thought her already agitated belly contracted in terror and she frantically scanned the impending greenery for lurking tree-gnomes, visualising their cunning eyes glinting below poisonous leafy hair, their gaping mouths hungry for fresh, tasty morsels like herself, lost and alone amongst the foliage. Don't be dense Crissy, she scolded herself, everyone knows forest-gnomes eat humans, not elves; she hoped that they wouldn't get confused and eat her by mistake. Rallying her nerves, Crissy encouraged herself to play the part of the fearless ranger of the woods, at one with nature. Shoulders back, she strode into the thickening trees with the image of herself as a hunter, brave and opportunistic, hungry for adventure.

Adventure, Cristiana soon found, did not fill an empty belly. Those damned greedy forest-gnomes had seemed to have scoffed all the nice juicy berries and Crissy slumped in capitulation on a grassless mound after what seemed like hours of walking, but was in fact only around forty minutes, if that. It was a sharp, clear morning and the sun could be used to determine the direction of travel. It would suffice to say then, that Cristiana had absolutely no idea where she was going. She had a map, but it had been spoiled by her recent swimming trip in the marketplace mud (the term is used loosely: it was mainly a composite of rotting food, animal shit and tramp's piss). Some coins and a kitchen knife, sticky with half-dried blood, were the only things she had left not ruined by the aforementioned 'mud'. Wincing, she felt some wet muck trail down her spine and the seamstress studied her carefully handmade clothes dejectedly. The inner picture of herself as an elegant, mysterious woman of the forest – hair flowing in wild silken strands – no longer yielded any motivation. Squelching the lumpy mess on top of her head, Crissy guessed that she looked more like a walking dragon turd. Overwhelmed by her situation, denial was the natural option. Pushing her head into her lap, knees up and arms firmly clasped around, Crissy thrust all her thoughts out and launched obstinately into a dreamless unconsciousness.

Dusk would have passed by unchecked had Crissy not been distracted by a tentative, moist probing on her hand. Terror holding the rest of her body still, she gradually eased her head upwards until, over clenched arms, she was challenged by one large amber eye, a tawny moon, suspended in the gloom. Cristiana's eyes adjusted to discern the shadowed, hairy face in which the single eye was set, and then the burgundy crevice that was responsible for the absence of the eye's brother. Grinning jaws yawned open, fangs luminous in the dark, and a note erupted of such chilling intensity that Crissy's whole body recoiled. Her own screams were soon supported by a cacophony of approaching howls as, for the second time that day, she scarpered for her life. She was, in addition, to be rescued in much the same way as she had been before, which might lead a more superstitious person to suppose that Cristiana's fate was inevitably linked to that of Lys and her group.

* * *

><p>Having carved apart the last wolf, Lys' eyes came to rest once again on the elf from Denerim – there was no mistaking that dejected, mucky face.<p>

"You've been very lucky today."

Crissy couldn't help but let slip her indignant response, "I wouldn't put it that way myself."

"You're alive, aren't you?"

Cristiana had never before encountered this fact in the form of a consolation, nor could she muster any further words, cowered and reddening under the crushing scrutiny of the group surrounding her. Her tongue and throat were unimaginably dry. She wondered if they were angry that she had run away from them in the marketplace that morning.

"We accept your thanks, so graciously put – I didn't think you could surpass the eloquence of your gratitude this morning, but here I stand, very much humbled by the correction." Morrigan's quip confirmed Crissy's worry.

"Why were those guards chasing you?" Lys continued, ignoring the interruption. And Cristiana ignored the question. Lys persisted.

"Where are you heading?"

"Err t-to Highever." She croaked.

Finding this whelp progressively more irritating, Lys stretched out her arm, "It's in that direction." She turned to those behind her, "Time to make camp: Leliana, build the fire; Sten, dispose of the wolves' bodies."

Cristiana looked to where Lys had indicated and shivered at the path framed by sinister, snaking foliage. "And, err, where are you lot going?"

"To seek out the Dalish in the Brecilian forest." Nobody except Sten had moved at Lys' order and she began unloading her pack and harrying everyone into action. "Morrigan, help Leliana set up the torches and main fire. And Wynne, will you help me with dinner? We'll need to do a bit extra as we have a guest tonight." Even though her Dalish upbringing would have once prevented Lys from having patience for such a pitiful wretch, now she couldn't help but feel natural compassion for the elf from Denerim. It was needless to say, Crissy was very relieved.

Soon that dark patch in the middle of the forest transformed into a light, warm pocket of civilisation, as each one set to their well-practised routines, though not without some sporadic glances at the newcomer sitting quietly under a tree. In return Cristiana marvelled at the efficiency of the operation. She was also very confused that an elf was the leader of the group – she could barely comprehend the sight of an elf issuing orders to a human.

By and by she was approached by a pretty woman with red hair and, Crissy couldn't help but notice even in the dimness, an exquisitely glossy cloak, with delicately stitched detail.

"Hello there, my name is Leliana, and you?"

"Cristiana." She managed a weak smile.

"Well Cristiana, come and have some supper, I am certain everyone will be as delighted as I to have someone new to talk to!"

Letting the cool water rush down her throat and then the steaming food warm her belly, Cristiana could at first shrug off the awkwardness at being surrounded by unknown faces, but soon it closed in, especially when she thought about how grotty she must look. She fixed her face towards the fire, looking mournfully now and again at her torn nails, and throughout most of the meal gleaned no direct attention, though of course she commanded much of the latent. Before long however, a disembodied voice penetrated from the other side of the fire.

"So Cristiana, tell us about yourself." She recognised the warm voice of the older mage to whom she had appealed in Denerim.

"I, erm, work at a tailor's – I'm a seamstress." Stumped by the openness of the question, her profession was the only way Cris could think to define herself.

"A seamstress? How wonderful!" Gushed Leliana. Cristiana decided that she liked the pretty redhead with the nice cloak.

" – and how useful!" Came a mocking reiteration. Crissy also decided that she hated the sarcastic one with her tits out.

Alistair urged himself to be more welcoming, reproaching his stubbornness in still feeling slighted from the morning rescue. Besides, if Morrigan was going to take against Cristiana, he needed no further reason to befriend her.

"Indeed it is useful Morrigan – come to think of it, my socks now have holes bigger than the actual socks themselves since Wynne gave up on them – my blisters shall rejoice in having you along. That is, if you don't mind doing the odd bit of darning?"

He inwardly cringed at his clunky attempt to make the newcomer feel welcome: not only had he asked someone he had just met to do him a personal favour, he had also spoken the phrase 'indeed it is useful Morrigan.' Cristiana, however, felt her cheeks warm at being addressed by such a charming voice emerging from the darkness and would have obliged him anything. She also felt comfortable with the natural hierarchy being partially restored – elves were supposed to do errands for humans, not the other way round.

"I think you'd be better off in the forest on your own, than anywhere near Alistair's socks." Teased Lys, perceiving Alistair's awkwardness with a slight smirk.

Wynne joined in, "Poor thing, you've only just met us and already you're faced with such a terrible prospect – there's a reason I quit you know."

Crissy was grateful as the joking escalated and the focus shifted away from herself; facing the prospect of her first ever night outside the city walls she was in no mood to socialise. As the group broke up to get into their separate tents, Lys passed Cristiana, placing a hand on her shoulder, "You can accompany us until you find passage to Highever, I'm sure it won't be too long."

Cristiana thanked her and could see that, past her reserved manner, Lys had an understated kindness in her eyes.

* * *

><p>Though Cristiana felt ill-mannered in being so grubby, she happily accepted Leliana's offer to share her tent. Despite offering a negligible increase in protection in comparison to her seat by the fire, Crissy felt much safer within the small, shared enclosure. Leliana's chattiness was also soothing, as she described her life in the Chantry and how she came to be fighting the Blight. Sure Crissy had heard of the Blight, but with so much work to do in the shop and then the arrangements for her move to Highever, she hadn't really thought about it; in the end she had wound up with a group of people who were wholly focussed upon it.<p>

"Well that's enough about me, I should fill you in on the rest of our merry party. Lys is – "she was interrupted by Crissy's curiosity.

"Sorry – I was wanting to ask: why is the boss an _elf_? Never thought I'd see the day when an elf gives the orders."

"Well she is one of the two Grey Wardens in our party, in the whole of Ferelden at that – Alistair is the other."

"I thought all the Grey Wardens in Ferelden were killed? And any who still claim the title are..." she paused, unsure whether to continue "...dangerous traitors?" She suddenly felt extremely upset.

Leliana reassured the unsettled elf that such news was nothing but slander. Before a completely unconvinced Crissy could ask why, Leliana continued to detail her companions, while the city elf's horror steadily grew. Eventually, the light-hearted tone with which Leliana flippantly dispensed the various appalling facts of her companion's lives, made the poor elf feel that she was dreaming, her consciousness glazed over with incredulity. At first she made shocked interjections,

"-he killed the whole bloody family with his _bare hands_?"

"He had no sword, remember?"

But soon she just gave in and let the crazy stories wash over her. Leliana finally got to the last person in her account.

"And our most recent addition is Zevran – the male elf – he's an assassin from Antiva."

"Assassin?"

"Yes, funny story actually, he was sent to kill Lys but failed and she recruited him."

Cristiana thought the Orlesian sense of humour decidedly odd.

"Lys travels with someone who was paid to off her?" Maybe Lys wasn't as level headed as she had initially seemed.

"Because she spared him, Zevran swore an oath to fight by her side."

"Oh so that's fine then."

Leliana continued, missing any irony.

"So anyway, his mother worked as a prostitute to pay off her dead lover's debts and died in childbirth. He was brought up in the brothel until he was seven, when he was sold to an elite assassin's guild known as the Antivan Crows. Also, he'll probably try and bed you before sundown tomorrow."

All Cristiana could do at that point was nod in acknowledgement. And she thought she'd seen it all in Denerim. With all this new information crowding her mind, Cris gratefully felt the swiftly approaching blessing of sleep which would sweep all her thoughts away. She thanked Leliana for her kindness, curled under the covers, then thanked Andraste it was Leliana with whom she was sharing the covers. It would suffice to say that she was glad she was sharing the tent of a Chantry sister, rather than that of a dangerous traitor, an undead mage, a witch with a dragon for a mother, a lecherous assassin or a giant, insane, red-eyed monster. For the sake of her sanity it was lucky she knew nothing of Leliana's past as a killer bard. As she slipped into half-consciousness, Cristiana dreamed that she was being chased by Lys' mabari hound, with red eyes and dragon wings.

* * *

><p>Chewing miserably on some stale bread, Crissy tried not to focus on her feet as her boots rhythmically chafed on the same sore spots with each progressive step. Insolently she wondered whether being eaten by wolves would have been a better fate than death by walking. She had made sure to get up as early as possible to wash off some of the grime in the brook close by, but as soon as she had returned they had all set off, and by the afternoon the seamstress was exhausted, though she dared not complain for fear of attracting any negative attention from the band of dodgy renegades surrounding her. Indeed, the long trek had allowed her to review Leliana's revelations from the night before and she wondered at how such sundry characters came to be joined under one purpose, and quite a brave and noble purpose at that. In the morning light Cristiana had found it easier to believe that Lys and Alistair had been untruthfully maligned, as she could sense no malice within either of them. Alas whereas Cristiana chose to attribute this sentiment to an aptitude for accurate character judgement, it was almost wholly due to subconscious bias. Seeing Alistair in the daylight without a helmet had caused the elf to do a double-take, for it was unnerving how much he resembled a certain acquaintance from her past, an acquaintance that, as much as she told herself she hated him now, nonetheless made her instinctively predisposed to warm to the man. As for Lys, well she was an elf, and that was enough for her – though she was not able to extend the courtesy to the elf now falling into step with her.<p>

"So Cristiana, can I ask why you are on the run?" His amber eyes brought to mind the wolf that had attacked her the day before.

"I killed an Arl's son for raping my cousin." She wanted to get to the point so he would leave her alone.

She had no such luck. "Yes, human nobles do seem to have a fondness for raping elves – though I must confess it made my job a lot easier I can tell you."

"...how?"

"Why, I used my handsome self as bait to lure my marks."

Last night Zevran had overheard Leliana telling her new friend all the background gossip of the group, including his profession, and he was amused at how nervous he made the other elf. Previously avoiding eye contact, Crissy turned to face him, incredulous at his words and seeking further elaboration from his facial expression. Though he was smiling, he wasn't joking.

"The Crows recruit elven assassins because we are considered beautiful by humans." He added, by way of explanation.

Though she was unsettled by his presence, she didn't want him to know it and assumed an unruffled demeanour, responding in a carefree tone. "I remember a few years back when a bloke was found stone dead in one of the swankier fish markets. Turns out his painted lady for the night was actually an assassin hired by his jealous wife."

"But surely this is a common occurrence?"

"Happens all the time in the dodgy places, where any sod can come and go, but this one had proper heavies at the door and only offered a higher class of fish – you know, it was one of them places where they washed the sheets and the girls were called 'courtesans.' He was quite a popular guard captain and loads of people were sorry to see him go to the worms. Though it's got to be said the women didn't take it as badly as the men."

"Let me guess, their husbands tended to come straight home from the tavern after that."

"Well, for a few days at least." They exchanged a grin. Crissy began to neglect her anxiety as the two fell into a rhythm of exchanging funny stories, though she made sure she didn't walk too close to him and she found it hard to make extended eye contact. If only Cerissa could have seen her then, trading casual banter with a professional assassin. Her imagination devoured his diverse narratives, and she asked all the right questions and gasped in all the right places: Zevran hadn't had such an attentive and enthusiastic audience in a while.


	5. Regret Cannot Be Washed Away

They had made good time along the West Road out of Denerim. On the tenth day since leaving the city they aimed to travel as far as possible without interruption for meals, for Lys knew the edge of the Brecilian Forest to be soon within their reach. She was anxious to revisit it. What would she do if the Blight had already ravaged her people? It just didn't bear thinking about. They marched almost solidly until the first dusky hues appeared in the sky, which signalled that it was finally time to rest.

She was grateful for the distraction created by the evening's cooking ritual – Alistair was clanging around with pots and pans, Leliana chatting about what to make, Holm barking his own suggestions – which allowed her to slip away into the trees. The nearby stream was where she was bound, to wash clothes and herself in highly-valued privacy. Although it was somewhat foolish and impractical to go alone, her tainted blood assured her that there were no darkspawn close enough to worry about, and she had long desired to escape the constant clash of personalities that her companions represented.

It was only a few hundred paces south to a suitable section of stream, where its high banks and foliage sheltered her better than the softly darkening sky alone. The water was clear enough to make out individual pebbles on the riverbed and looked deep enough to reach her mid-thigh or so. Good enough. She shed her Dalish leather eagerly, feeling ready for a thorough bathing. She crept down the bank and tested the water with one foot. As expected, it was bracingly cold.

She took a great breath in and took the plunge, submerging herself momentarily to wet her hair. Jaw clenched against the cold, she set about rubbing her body clean as efficiently as she could without anything to use as soap. Eventually, she turned her attention to the normally bright blonde curtain that clung to her head and neck, and methodically teased the dirt and tangles out with her fingers. She always found this simple activity to be very soothing; the repetitiveness of the combing action and pleasant results when there were no more knots obstructing her made her feel good about herself. It was always during this ritual that she felt at her most feminine. Once satisfied, she wrapped herself in her towelling cloth and sat down heavily on a fallen log along the bank, slim toes left dangling in the gentle flow.

Staring off into nothing, Lys was lost in unconscious thought, grateful for this moment of not having to worry about the present. Her head sagged into upturned palms, her eyes closed with a wave of exhaustion. Irrepressible images began to manifest under her lids, just as vivid as if she were seeing them for the first time, and for now she wearily obliged them, because she was terrified of forgetting.

* * *

><p><em>She drew back her arm with control and poise, strong fingers comfortable in their glove against the taut bowstring. She waited patiently in silence for her mark to reappear, knowing it to be behind the great tree trunk thirty paces away. The seconds stretched out wearyingly, but she held position, enduring the growing ache from keeping her weapon at full draw. A gentle hand came to rest on her left shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat and she stole a glance in that direction to catch his meaning. He nodded towards the thicket beyond the tree. She hadn't heard the creature move, but she trusted him completely. She now concentrated on those bushes, straining to detect the slightest rustle. But the only discernable sound was the blood pumping through her ears.<em>

_All of a sudden a bird of prey dived into her field of vision cutting through the forest quiet with a resounding screech, emerging from the bushes with a baby hare in its beak. The deer she was stalking had been spooked by the sound and sudden movement and sprang out from behind the great tree. She let the string slip unobstructed from her grasp and exhaled the breath she didn't know she had been holding, as the arrow flew straight and true towards the creature's vulnerable flank. It was not without a pang of regret that she watched the arrowhead pierce through such fine hide and muscle, but her sense of satisfaction was easily greater. She grabbed her fellow elf's hand and bounded off into the glade to where the deer had fallen._

_She knelt beside it, and laid her other hand on its fine neck, warm and pulsating. Its black orb-like eyes were wide with shock. It was a youngish doe, and the girl tried hard not to think about motherless fawns when she slit its throat with her _dar'misu_._

_She turned her head to smile triumphantly at the man kneeling next to her, and his face was a picture of pride and affection. _

'_Rellan, I misunderstood you when you indicated towards the bushes. I thought you meant she was over there. I still didn't make a mistake, at least.' This petulant voice, playfully chiding him for what he had perceived as help, was remembered with discomfort. It had been her own, of course._

'_You did very well, _da'len_.__' Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes as his smile touched them. 'You are certainly ready to shed the label of apprentice. Tomorrow I will observe your hunting without interference. I have every faith in you.' He spoke gruffly, as though long disuse had roughened the edges of his voice. Lys swooned at the compliment, which came from the one she respected most, and gazed at him with hope and excitement in her eyes. Abruptly, he realised they were still holding hands, so he took his back from her and looked away, embarrassed. But Lys was not to be discouraged so lightly. She turned her body to face him instead of the dead doe and held on to his arm, willing him to look at her again. _

_He did so – turning his head around slowly to meet her stare, she read both fear and reciprocation in that beloved face. Pounding heartbeats, surroundings melted to a blur of green and brown. Impossibly, she thought, he raised the arm she was holding to caress her face, ever so softly, so softly that she even wondered if her mind was fabricating it. She inclined her head into his palm, closing her deceitful eyes for a moment in sweet bliss, with his long fingers tenderly touching her ear. Then, he leant almost imperceptibly towards her, and though she felt delirious, the will of her body was undeniable. His face was close now, close enough to see every detail of his intricate _vallaslin_, close enough to see the need for reassurance in his subtle expression, and she lightly brushed her lips against his. He let go of a gentle sigh through his nose, and closed his eyes to her onset of kisses. Kisses to his cheeks, to his forehead, his nose, chin, jaw, mouth. Not knowing what to do with her hands, after some clumsy fumbling she let her instincts take them over, exploring all over his leather-bound chest__,__ entwining themselves in his chestnut mane. _

_She could tell that he both wanted this and yet despised himself for his weakness. But she could not feel guilt for her actions. She loved him, as well as she knew how, with all the stubbornness of a precocious youth. It had been some five years since the clan had planted an acorn for the death of his wife, and although it was no longer socially necessary for him to be in mourning, he was still a man of broken spirit. He had loved no one else since that time. He could not find it in himself to seek a new partner, for no one would ever make him feel complete the way his wife had done. Thus, the other clan adults mostly left him to his quiet ways, as all his positivity was reserved for his teaching and crafting. They pitied him greatly, but none ever spoke of the matter out of respect for his ongoing grief. Lys had been a stringy girl of eleven years when it had happened, and he had been but a vague adult figure to her. Even now she could not really understand the emotions that had brought the change in him back then; all she knew was that she felt happiest when he was with her and she wanted to see some of that happiness reflected in him._

_She mumbled into his chest as they lay in the leafy light of the glade, some childish protest about his reticence, and Rellan whispered back, she was too young for this kind of thing and there was all the time in the world. He stroked her golden head and they spoke no more, for she was drifting peacefully into the Fade._

* * *

><p>Wind bit through Lys' damp hair and a shiver shook her, dragging her out of the reverie. To her surprise, she was no longer alone. Holm was sat on the end of the log, watching her attentively with canine concern. She realised that she couldn't feel her extremities.<p>

'And how long have you been there?'

He barked a curt response and went to his mistress to lend her the warmth of his fur.

'I suppose I have been a long time. You must think I'm mad sitting here alone in the dark with just a towel on. Could you run back to camp and let everyone know that I'm–… fine?' She was acutely aware that if she had been talking to anyone other than a dog, her 'fine' would not have been believed.

He cocked his head questioningly, as if to say, 'And how do I convey that without words?'

'Just don't lead them back here, I still need to wash my armour and underclothes and I don't want to face the lot of them yet. Be a good boy.' And with a cursory pat to the bottom, he was off again.

Lys dressed now in the plain clothes she sometimes wore around the camp and began her laundry with no real haste. Elven eyes could see well enough to do it by moonlight, and she was quick to warm up now that she wasn't sitting still. As she engaged in the mindless task, her lingering thoughts of Rellan were ushered back into the dark corners of her mind, eclipsed by immediate concerns. It wasn't long before her attention drifted around to Alistair, and before she could catch herself, her imagination had begun to run away with her.

Though he was a human, built considerably larger than the average elf male, pondering over it now, she could not deny that she found Alistair very attractive: his broad shoulders and solid torso, those well-honed legs and arms. Just thinking about the potential for raw power within that manly frame set her stomach aflutter. It was a rare occurrence that anyone should appeal to her in such a way, and even rarer that amorous feelings should begin to commandeer her attention. She was not a fool for love; she was a creature of purpose. That was the part of her identity she most wished to perpetuate. If something needed to be done, she did it; if there was something she wanted, she tried her best to attain it. That she was having these kinds of thoughts at all made her wary; she needed to keep it together, for much more than her own happiness was at stake. Just now, however, she allowed herself to indulge in one more pleasant memory as she scrubbed and rinsed alternately: the kiss she had shared with him in her room at the Gnawed Noble.

The young elf couldn't help smiling privately as she strolled back into camp, her many burdens seeming a little lighter than when she had left. She saw that Holm's message had somehow been relayed successfully, for the atmosphere held no anxiety about it. Her imagination fleetingly suggested an amusing mental image of the dog making a public show of licking himself to explain her absence. She looked affectionately at his snoozing form as she passed by. It was a quiet night in camp. A few people were still up, but most of them were already sleeping off the day's long march. Lys nodded a greeting to Sten and Cristiana who were presumably on first watch duty, but the latter was too busy staring incredulously at the former to notice. Sten grunted back. She liked Sten. He was reliable.

It appeared that the cooking equipment had already been packed away, so she inquired about leftovers at the behest of her Grey Warden appetite. Apparently Alistair had saved some of his broth and a slice of bread for her, so she left the pair of them to find him.

Alistair was relaxing by the camp's secondary fire, the place where Morrigan often skulked to avoid idle conversation, but by the looks of things she had already retired to her tent.

He stood up when she approached, and greeted her with his irresistible grin. 'So, what's with the sudden bathing alone thing? Maker forbid that you were doing something that the other women aren't allowed to witness. Holm's portrayal of the situation was a bit ambiguous.'

'Alistair!' Amusement tugged at the corners of her open mouth. I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' she replied in mock outrage, warmth rising in her cheeks. With a casual lilt she continued, 'I have reason to believe you have my food?'

'Uh, yeah, about that…' He shot a guilty glance sideways. 'Well, Holm kept bothering me for scraps and eventually I caved, so there's really nothing left of it. _But_ you are welcome to share my cheese and bread.' Alistair was notoriously protective of his personal supply of cheese. It was after all the one thing he had insisted on purchasing for himself before they left the city.

'This wouldn't have anything to do with the rumour that it was you who cooked tonight, would it? You can just give it to me, I'm hungry enough to eat anything.'

'Ah, the way you see right past my small deceptions, you'd think we'd known each other forever.'

'Not really. You're a terrible liar. Where's my food, Alistair? I can't eat your cheese, it'd feel like stealing treats from a child.'

Knowing he couldn't win, the man sighed in resignation and trudged off to fetch the leftovers. She watched him go, none too subtly. Since he had pointed out her odd post-kiss demeanour, Lys had made an effort to act more normal around him. It was intensely comforting to know how much he cared about her, that he was able to be patient for her, so she could sort through her feelings without pressure from his side. She observed with great interest that the less he sought her, the more she seemed to want him.

Her Alistair-oriented musings were interrupted when a shadow of a sound reached her ears from an unexpected direction, and immediately she was on her guard. There was something – or someone –just a few paces away in the trees, beyond the reach of the firelight. Lys's mind briefly recalled her arms lying in her tent, but her gut told her they would not be necessary. Trusting her instinct, she crept some way into the forest in order that she could reach the source of the sound from behind, rather than from the direction of the campsite.

As she got closer however, she could tell that whatever it was had gone. There was nothing untoward about the forest floor or immediate surroundings to provide her with a clue, adept tracker that she was. Her ears never lied, though her eyes had occasionally been known to. Still as a petrified sylvan, she strained to listen to the forest. Was there a trace of movement in that all-enshrouding blackness? She caught her breath, though silent, to confirm it. _Yes. _It must have been twenty paces away, at least, and so indistinct amidst the leafy night air that it was likely to be nothing more than a rodent. Nevertheless, she was interested now and had a responsibility to investigate.

Facing the void, her eyes adjusted quickly to the lack of moon or firelight under the canopy and once she could clearly make out the contours of terrain and tree-trunks, she crept soundlessly towards the direction of the rustle. Fifteen paces in, she stopped. No one around. The forest sighed, as if speaking to her. _You've been away far too long, _da'len_._ There was not even a mouse, and certainly nothing unusual.

The call of a man's voice drifted into the forest from behind her. _Alistair_.

She stowed the strange non-encounter away in her mind for now, shrugging off an encroaching wave of regret. For once, she was eager to share her good mood with the other night owls, and to humour Alistair by pretending to enjoy his culinary miscarriage.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Sorry for the delay in posting, had more stuff going on than usual. Click that review button! You know you want to ;)_


	6. Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

Bracing her foot against the grimace of a dead hurlock, Crissy struggled to pull out the kitchen knife wedged right in the middle of its face. As the knife loosened, the eye socket crunched inwards from the weight of her foot, which plunged into the skull; her boot was left smeared with lumpy, bloodied matter and the jelly which oozed out of the collapsed eye. Wiping her boot on the grass Crissy suppressed the urge to throw up, mainly because after days of fighting darkspawn, bandits and wild animals there wasn't anything left in her stomach to expel. Furthermore, now that she had to wear darkspawn armour on a daily basis, Crissy had got used to the smell. Lys had insisted that Crissy loot some armour, as they encountered so many hostile parties on a daily basis, but for the first few days – to Crissy's relief – all the armour they had found was far too tall for her, that is, until they had encountered and killed a few genlocks. Putting on genlock armour was not her finest moment. It was uncomfortable as it pressed on her chest, greasy to the touch and reeking of sweat, burnt flesh and rotten onions. In addition, every time she turned her head she nearly poked herself in the eye with the ridiculously spiked pauldrons. She was a long way from her preference for perfectly tailored clothes: if Shianni could only see her now. In fact it hadn't even been two weeks but Crissy had found herself settling into the new routines of life on the road, though she had to admit she would appreciate a little more time sitting next to the road, so to speak. Of those in the group whom she didn't find too intimidating, Crissy found her efforts at socialising mostly reciprocated by Leliana and Zevran; they always had a good story to tell.

"...and the last ever look on his face, when he felt under my dress and found a lot more than he was expecting, made wearing that corset all night completely worth it."

"Zevran what an awful story!" Exclaimed Leliana, pretending not to be amused, though an irrepressible smirk danced slyly on her lips.

"And he proper thought you were a girl?" Though male elves were beardless and smaller than their human counterparts, Crissy was still finding a convincing transformation difficult to visualise.

"Women are easy to do; once I had to kill an old aristocrat who had more love for his large collection of rare animals than for any person, so to gain access to him I had to dress up as a pygmy wurl-bear."

"Really?"

Zevran laughed and Leliana swatted at him with a smile. "You would do well not to believe everything that comes out of Zevran's mouth, Crissy."

Crissy went red. "Well, I've never seen a pygmy wurl-bear."

"That's because they don't exist." Replied Leliana, as Zevran continued to chuckle.

"Argh stop teasing me Zevran!" Crissy put on an exaggerated frown, "I'm sure if they did exist, they'd stink just as bad as you, so you'd be able to imitate one easily."

"Oh, sweetest honeysuckle bloom! You wound me with your harsh words: you are as cruel as you are beautiful." This time she blushed at the compliment, comical though it was. And his overblown nicknames really did tickle her.

"And you're as charming as you are trustworthy, oh, fragrant raindrop."

"Fragrant? As stinky as a pygmy wurl-bear? Do you really think I need a bath, then?"

"All I'm saying is that this honeysuckle bloom wilts whenever you get too close." This time, Leliana laughed.

* * *

><p>Like any other child living in the alienage, Crissy had often played games pretending to be a fabled Dalish elf, fighting monsters in the forest; she was soon to discover that Dalish children didn't pretend to be city elves, shovelling shit for their human masters. On entering the Dalish camp Crissy felt, for the first time, something of a kinship to her fellow travellers, instigated by the cold contemplation with which they were all being regarded by the camp's inhabitants. She couldn't stand the weight of so many unflinching stares and cowered at the back of the group, experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of appreciation for Sten's gargantuan presence, and she stuck close behind his back. In secret retaliation Crissy internally guffawed at the forest elves' attire – what's the point of having armour that exposes your midriff, you know, that area which contains all those vital squelchy bits? Nevertheless, as Lys spoke to their Keeper, Crissy couldn't help but admire their obvious grace and the stunning intricacies of their facial markings. She was not so proud of her own tattoo: a rudimentary design, fashioned by Soris' friend, Deren, with his mother's sewing needle. She had got it done because Cerissa next door had got one and convinced her it was the best thing to look more grown up. It was initially going to be a skyblossom, whose prolific petals Deren said symbolised the beauty of eternity (or the eternity of beauty, she could never quite remember), but he couldn't quite master the delicate curves, the ink bleeding outwards from each stroke until she was left with a shapeless blotch sprawled around her left eye. Nevertheless, Crissy had deliberately chosen the position of the tattoo and still considered it an improvement on the skin disguised underneath: a discoloured blemish left over from a childhood illness.<p>

As they were setting up camp, Lys approached her to say that she had brought up Crissy's situation with Lanaya.

"Lanaya informed me that, with the clan temporarily stationed on the outskirts of the forest, their scouts often report on the traffic of the large roads. Many refugees are fleeing north and she will tell you when one such party passes by this way; it shouldn't be long. Until then you are welcome to their hospitality."

"I knew everything was going to turn out alright!" Smiled Crissy.

"So, your path is set – do you have enough to pay your way to Highever?"

She almost certainly didn't, but Crissy was so thankful for Lys' help that she wouldn't think on it, "Yes, I'll be fine and dandy – thank you so much! I'm so grateful to you, really, someone I hardly even know, if I had anything to give you I would –"

Lys felt slightly awkward at this overflowing warmth and silenced the other elf by putting a hand on her arm, "Anything you have, you will need. Besides, I don't know how long either of us will be here, but if you could do dinner tonight instead of Alistair then that's all the thanks I need." She gave a small smile as Crissy immediately acquiesced to her suggestion, before wandering off to help Leliana with her tent. Saddled with the colossal and seemingly endless task of crushing the Blight, Lys couldn't help but feel fleetingly envious of the carefree life that Crissy was allowed to pursue.

* * *

><p>The next morning, while Lys and her party went in search of the werewolves, Crissy explored the camp, but all attempts to speak to anyone ended in failure. They were all curious as to why she hadn't accompanied Lys.<p>

"Well you see, I'm not actually part of their group."

"But you arrived with them, and camp with them."

"...but I'm heading somewhere different."

"Oh? Where are you going?"

"Highever."

"To the _alienage_?" The word was spat out like sour milk.

"I have family there..."

After a while, she just started lying.

"I'm staying behind to guard our camp, you know, from intruders – well not you obviously..."

No one was convinced, but she kept trying.

"You see I have to split from the group and travel north, to carry important information from the Grey Wardens, to, erm, important people. You know, Blight update and that. Crucial job."

"Is that so? Because I heard that you were travelling back to the Highever _alienage_ to live with your family."

In the end Crissy found the hallas to be the best company and spent a long time daydreaming by their enclosure, captivated by their exotic radiance. They held themselves as haughtily as the Dalish, but couldn't give disdainful looks or say _'alienage' _in a snooty voice and so were infinitely preferable. Crissy had expected the Dalish to be like Lys, a little bit severe and intimidating, but sympathetic. She supposed that living away from the clan had made Lys more open-minded. Maybe I didn't grow up in a forest and frolic naked amongst the trees, she reflected, but that doesn't mean I'm as repulsive as shit on your boot_._ Crissy was not partial to being so universally disliked.

Anxious to be prepared for her journey north she eventually left the halla pen to find someone called Varathorn, whom Lys said should have armour and weapons for sale.

"Good morning, I heard that I could trade with you?"

"Good _afternoon. _I am no merchant, but let us trade."

"Of course, thank you." Her gracious tone belied her indignant thought: what's wrong with being a merchant?This Dalish pride thing was really starting to grate.

Crissy really wanted to get rid of the spiked, onion armour, but the only alternative available was the cropped breastplate and high-skirt combination, which didn't seem very protective, or flattering. Thus she resigned herself to smelling like her great aunt Gorthil's house for the foreseeable future. Her trusty kitchen knife, however, paled in comparison to the fine weapons on offer, and was happily replaced. Crissy had no idea how to shoot a bow and the swords were too heavy, choosing instead a long dagger, etched with beautifully mysterious runic carvings. Crissy had no insight into the ancient traditions and knowledge recovered by the Dalish of the exalted Elvish past, but she couldn't deny that it all looked very nice. The dagger balanced pleasingly in her hand, a flawless extension of her wrist, and she deftly twirled the blade until it sang; it would be hopeless at crushing garlic, but great at slicing necks. Since she wasn't buying any armour she stocked up on some small, throwing knives, though Crissy was doubtful that she would need them. Sadly Varathorn didn't have any deathroot extract to replace her ruined supply.

Withdrawing to the privacy of the trees just outside the camp, Crissy went through the training that she had once practised with her mother, and which had been refreshed in her mind and improved upon by Leliana. She also rehearsed sheathing the dagger: she had never had a scabbard strapped to her back before and it took a few tries before she stopped poking herself. As she span, rolled, thrusted, feinted, Crissy's confidence began to grow and by the end of the session – panting, sweaty and somewhat lightheaded – she reasoned that maybe she could hold her own in the forest tomorrow, by Lys' side – another day alone in the Dalish camp was an unappealing prospect. This was until they all arrived back, worn out and drenched in blood. Once she had heard Leliana's colourful description of the werewolves' bloodied jaws and she had seen the deep scratch marks in Alistair's shield, Crissy deemed the moderate social discomfort of the Dalish camp as the favourable option for tomorrow. She'd rather bite a dwarf's toenails than go off werewolf-hunting.

When Zevran announced that he had just the drink to cheer everyone up from a hard day's slaughtering, Crissy could have kissed him. As she sipped appreciatively at the strange drink which seared her throat, and competed with Zevran and Leliana to tell the more uproarious tale, for the first time since she left home she felt as warm and contented as if she were among friends in a back alley Denerim tavern. Wynne, on the other hand, was not so pleased. "We haven't even had dinner yet! And the sun is still up!" ("Mere technicalities, my dear Wynne.") Lys and Alistair also joined them, but Sten declined and Morrigan went off her own somewhere, as usual; Crissy couldn't say she missed them. She eyed Alistair fondly as he attempted to swallow the burning liquid without coughing his lungs up and then as he blushed at the racier parts of the chatter. Meanwhile Wynne noisily made dinner in the background.

After a couple of fingers of Zevran's toxic liquor, Crissy's head was pleasantly cloudy as she wandered towards the latrines. Engrossed in thinking of another good tale to tell, Crissy was torn from her reverie as she was heading back into the camp by a young Dalish woman, maybe a year or two younger than herself, with limp blonde hair drooping over sharp cheekbones. Observing her cocky expression and folded arms, Crissy knew a bully when she saw one, out to impress her juvenile lackeys, two of whom stood behind in laughably poor imitations of their leader's pose.

"So, enjoying your stay with the Dalish, little alienage girl?" She called out. "Your ears may be pointed, but you are not welcome as kin."

Really? I hadn't noticed, came Crissy's sarcastic thought, though she kept her voice friendly. "Please, believe me, – er what's your name?"

"Vallestra Ironeye." Crissy could not match such an epithet with the watery, blue orbs which confronted her.

"Believe me Vallestra, I'll soon be on my way." She smiled disarmingly and tried to evade her challenger, veering to the left, but Vallestra would not be so easily shaken off, blocking Crissy's attempt to escape. Crissy could smell a fight and needed to get away – she had always steered clear of the numerous scraps to be had back in Denerim, as she valued the possession of both her ears and all of her teeth.

"Well I heard that we have to babysit you, until you can tag along with some shemlen refugees, back to your beloved _alienage_." She uncrossed her arms and turned to look up at the trees. "Elves like you make me sick: cowards who deny their noble heritage and willingly bow down to shemlen rule." She locked her eyes back onto Crissy, pushing her chest out haughtily. "Have you no dignity?" The way she spoke, rolling out clichéd terms as if by rote, even Crissy could tell that the younger elf was repeating received truths, and reckoned that Vallestra had never before actually met 'elves like her' nor had any idea about the lives they led. She wasn't going to bother saying any of this though, as it would only serve as bait.

"Sure, dignity's great, but there are other things to life – we city elves favour the simple pleasures; I'm sure, as you do. Can't beat a good game of dice and a few verses of 'Liola Was Everyone's Girl' to chase away a cold night, am I right? What's your favourite fireside ditty?" Her light-hearted tone had no effect on Vallestra. What do they do for fun out here, she wondered, carve totem poles?

"I would expect such base views from a downtrodden wretch like you; I would consider a shemlen a worthier opponent."

"Opponent? Aw, come on Vally, we're alright, me and you. Let's have a drink by the fire and you can tell me about the Dalish – as you can tell I'm pretty dense about it all."

Eyes narrowing, Vallestra was becoming increasingly annoyed by what she perceived as Crissy's flippant tone, determined to see the fear she was convinced the other elf felt.

"Stop hiding behind words and defend your honour!" Shrieked the aggravated Vallestra and she thrust Crissy's shoulder backwards, desperate for a reaction.

Why is the stupid cow pushing this?, Crissy wondered. Is beating up a city elf how you get promoted in Dalish clans? Did Zathrian rough up an alienage family or two to get where he is now?

"Sorry Val but defending my honour isn't on the schedule for today, need to have dinner, wash my underwear, you know..."

"No, I do not know."

These Dalish were stubborn. Crissy was used to restless, drunken louts on the darkened streets of Denerim, looking for a fuck or a fight, and was practised at weaselling her way out of many a dangerous situation. She had retreated from far scarier, angrier individuals in her time. Even though this daft snob was really starting to get on her tits, Crissy was determined to walk away and gently pushed her way past. Infuriated, Vallestra threw out one last provocative remark at her retreating target.

"Shemlen cocksucker."

Crissy stopped and turned around. "What was that?" The forest twerp had gone too far.

Vallestra confidently strode towards Crissy until their faces nearly touched.

"I said, shem-len-cock-sucker."

With this last insult, suppressed anger of which Crissy had barely been aware, erupted ferociously, filling her veins with white heat. She jerked her head forward and with a wet crunch smashed her forehead into the taller elf's nose. Vallestra tottered backwards, clutching at her gushing face, gleaming eyes a mixture of surprise, then fury; she had expected Crissy to react, but not so suddenly, nor so violently. Crissy was herself stunned by what she had just done, her sudden rage soon receding. In her confusion she was unable to evade the foot that flew upwards and slammed under her chin, hurling her to the floor. Vallestra stood tall, hands fallen from her face, one on her hips, the other beckoning her fallen opponent upright.

"Come on then alienage filth, let's see if you're worthy of being a friend to the Dalish." Cristiana considered it a friendship she could do without.

Though Vallestra was stronger, fitter and most probably far superior at fighting than her – not to mention wearing armour that actually fit – Crissy thought the other elf pretty stupid in disregarding her momentary advantage. The Denerim elf had never before encountered such ludicrous etiquette: now she knew she had a chance at victory. Back in the city everyone had been acquainted with the dirty tricks employed to gain the upper hand in a fight, but here it seemed they would still hold the element of surprise. It struck her how naive the Dalish were, with their introverted culture. As Vallestra attempted to hit Crissy, the latter kept dodging and retreating, exasperating her opponent until she lost her temper. Releasing a frustrated scream Vallestra charged forward, crimson blood streaming down her neck, and with one hand caught Crissy's breastplate and yanked her forward to successfully land a punch with the other. Crissy tilted her head but the blow still glanced painfully off her cheek. In the meantime however, she had managed to push her thumbs firmly into Vallestra's eyes. The Dalish elf gasped at the pain and pulled down Crissy's hands, which left scratches in their wake. Though temporarily blinded, Vallestra tenaciously gripped at Crissy's struggling hands until she had partially recovered, crossed them over and twisted the other elf around, tightly restraining her with Crissy's own arms. Crissy squirmed wildly and fought to manoeuvre her head around, plunging her teeth into the hand which was pinning right wrist to collar bone. Her arm was quickly released and she span around, jabbing wildly at Vallestra's bare midriff. Meanwhile, Vallestra was incessantly punching Crissy in the face with Crissy's own hand, still clutched in her grasp. Their cries coupled with the shouts of Vallestra's cronies soon attracted the attention of others in the outskirts of the camp and the combatants were hastily dragged apart.

"You fight like a rabid _dog_!" Spluttered Vallestra, as she was pulled away, holding her stomach.

Gasping for air, Crissy's battle lust soon faded and she perceived the unbearable reality of her surroundings. Everyone was staring at her in disgust. She tasted blood in her mouth, only some of it her own. Maybe the biting was one step too far, she thought. Lanaya stepped forward and spoke sharply to someone behind Crissy's shoulder.

"I am surprised that you travel with someone so disrespectful of the hospitality we have granted."

Typical, thought Crissy, even though one of them started it they close ranks against me. She turned to see whom it was the elf had addressed. Her heart sank when she realised it was Lys who had hauled her from the scuffle.

"Lys I'm sorry I –"

"Not now." Lys cut her off. She had to consider what she was going to say to Crissy, and the need to placate their hosts was more pressing. She apologised and negotiated peace with Lanaya, who soon softened – she seemed to have some empathy for the city elf. As the crowd dispersed, Crissy slipped away from the unfriendly glares into a secluded spot, where she despondently plonked down onto a fallen tree. Leliana had followed and joined her on the log, offering sympathy. Crissy thoughts soon drifted away from Leliana's kind words of assurance – that she had been provoked and so on – as her encounter with Vallestra was currently the last thing she wanted to think about. There was now no way she was going to be able stay with the Dalish after Lys had left, even if she wanted to, which she definitely didn't. If a convoy heading to Highever didn't come soon, she would have to carry on with Lys – and that was only if she was still welcome after what had just happened. Only if the situation were truly desperate would Crissy ever venture out into the forest on her own again, but on the other hand Lys was actively heading toward danger. When it became apparent to Leliana that Crissy was not really listening, the elf blamed her absent mindedness on being dazed from being hit repeatedly in the face and Leliana left her alone to recover. Crissy continued to worry about her situation, before an unexpected though not unwelcome distraction came in the appearance of Zevran, who sat down next to her. Why was he looking for me?, she wondered.

"How's your head?"

"Hurts a bit."

"Your face is certainly very colourful." Crissy guessed she had a face like a ripe plum, swollen by the Orlesian sun. "Mmm," he studied her appearance for much longer than she thought necessary, before confirming her plum hypothesis, "it is a very appealing shade of mottled pink – and there's a dash of purple coming along nicely. Quite a picture. Drink?" He offered her his flask.

She swigged a much-needed draught and it went down a lot easier this time around. At once she felt more comforted than after Leliana's efforts.

"I must say I like how you Denerim elves fight."

"You mean you weren't scandalously shocked and horrified?"

"Of course I was, and it made me yearn for a good old Antivan tavern brawl: fire, teeth and underwear all over the place. I'm sorry I only caught the end of it."

"Well we can go and find her again if you fancy it – you hold and I'll punch."

"I think she'll stay away from you now, I don't think anyone has ever bit her before."

Crissy shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, when I thought back on it, the biting wasn't such a good idea – I did it reflexively." She instantly regretted that last addition – confessing that you bite people reflexively in moments of danger is not very flattering information. Zevran didn't seem to be put off; in fact he moved closer and extended his cloak around her back, carefully avoiding her genlock spikes.

"Here, you look cold." It wasn't a particularly cold night; his arm settled around her waist. She speculated distractedly about what Lys was going to say to her.

"Don't fret, I don't think this has been such a fond reunion for our fearless leader. She won't be so upset with you."

"So you can read thoughts as well? Do your many talents have an end?" Crissy was genuinely impressed with Zevran's perceptiveness.

"An irrelevant question, my dear, for if they do, no one will ever know it."

"Can you guess what I'm thinking now?"

"You're thinking how lucky you are, to be sharing the beautiful night sky with such a handsome companion."

"Actually, I was thinking about what I'm having for breakfast tomorrow - I'm not sure if the eggs I collected the other day have gone off yet."

He squeezed her waist and chuckled. "You're not fooling anyone, my rose petal: your burning cheeks give you away."

Crissy quickly turned her head but the sharp movement gave her a slight head rush. She still hadn't eaten that evening and blamed her light-headedness and blushing on the strong alcohol racing through her blood; it had nothing to do with the warm embrace of a flirty elf. Leliana had said that Zevran would try it on with her at some point and she was ready to reject his advances. But she had to admit it wasn't the most disagreeable situation – there _was_ a bit of a chilly wind – maybe she would reject him a tad later. When she breathed his deep, earthy scent Crissy was pleasantly surprised: she had expected him to smell like flowery perfume or something, given his finely groomed appearance. Crissy looked back to find him nonchalantly gazing into the darkening trees, though his arm was still nestled tightly at her waist. She savoured the strength in his arms and wondered how it would feel if his hand should slip below her shirt and press lightly on her bare skin. Her musings, however, were interrupted by the rude pain in her abused face, which was beginning to ache something dreadful.

"I need to turn in - I could sleep 'til I'm dead." Zevran did not seem in any way affected by this news and accompanied her back to Leliana's tent. Morrigan and Holm were on watch together, the former watching the fire from her crouched position. Crissy tried to make friendly eye contact with her and failed, voicing a good night to all before ducking through the canvas doorway to Leliana's tent.

As Crissy dozed off, she tried not to focus on the sudden anger that had ignited her fierce reaction to Vallestra's taunting. As someone not prone to rash violence she didn't recognise herself in that fleeting moment of fury – though it had happened before, when she had cut down all those men in the Arl's Estate. Unknown to Vallestra, her last provocation had resurrected old anxieties. Years ago Crissy had had an affair with a human, and had lived in dread of what her family and community would say and do should they have found out. She was reminded of how one alienage girl had been insulted and snubbed after her affair with a young man had come to light. Being abused by humans was deemed unavoidable, but developing romantic feelings for them was unacceptable. When Crissy looked at Alistair his face reminded her of this man from her past, but this time there was no one around who would censure her desires. Besides, she thought, Alistair is a much better man that Marcus could ever hope to be. And he was a prince to boot. Maybe she was too old for fairytales, but she still believed they could come true.


	7. Tattoos and Taboos

The Dalish elves. Reclusive, proud and fiercely independent, few outsiders ever stumbled across one of their clans, even when actively seeking them. They were a nomadic people, and took care to conceal where they had travelled, leaving few vestiges for the group to go on. Had Lys not been Dalish herself, they could have wasted a great deal of time trying to find them. She had spent much of her life in and around the Brecilian forest, and she led them instinctively along twisting trails and through hidden groves, an invisible path that she knew without having to think about it.

They could only manage a modest pace at best, hindered as ever by the ox-drawn cart belonging to the dwarf merchants, which made it difficult to navigate the denser parts of the woods. Nevertheless, Lys was confident of finding something soon. Now and then, she inspected an impression on the ground here, a burnt strip of bark there, signs that told her that her kinspeople had definitely passed through not long ago.

It was the height of autumn, in the month which she had heard Alistair refer to as Harvestmere. The afternoon sun saturated the canopy, drenching them all in hues of red and gold. Songbirds carried on their melodious exchanges all around, and her heart began to sing with them. The forest really was enchanting, when its denizens weren't trying to kill you. They had already encountered several groups of giant spiders and ravenous wolves, which had a horrible habit of springing out of nowhere.

It was after one such group of attackers had been ruthlessly dispatched that Alistair plucked up the courage to chat aimlessly with his fellow Warden.

'So you think the Dalish are not far from here?'

'It seems so.' She spoke over her shoulder to him as he followed directly behind.

'How do you know where we're going? It's like you have some internal compass or something.'

'I've lived in this forest. And I can see signs to follow.'

'Oh.'

She had this way of making light conversation difficult, and Alistair was not particularly adept at coming up with convincing reasons to talk to her.

He took another stab at it.

'Is it _your_ clan we're tracking? I mean – I don't mean to imply that I think there're only a few Dalish in Ferelden because there are probably lots, right?'

She couldn't help but smirk affectionately at his attempt to phrase the question without seeming ignorant. 'It's highly unlikely that it's them. They were supposed to have gone north a long time ago.'

'Alistair,' Wynne chimed in, from a few paces behind them.

'Yes, my dear Wynne?' he said brightly, his voice taking on a more boyish and confident tone when talking to her instead. He held back in order to fall in step with the mage.

'Have a care that your eyes "go north" a little too, mm?'

'Whaa—?' Alistair stopped dead in his tracks briefly, causing Sten and Holm to push impatiently past him, in typical no-nonsense fashion. Eventually catching up to the teasing mage, he thanked the Maker that she had had mercy enough to make her remark quietly. He hissed defensively back at her, 'No no no, I wasn't looking at her, you know...—'

'Of course.'

'She's leading us, and I was just following behind!' It did not escape him how his near-frantic whispering betrayed that assertion somewhat.

'Naturally.'

'I would never...!'

'Ohh, how adorable, it seems you're blushing again.'

'You're... evil. You said that on purpose, didn't you?'

'Come now, Alistair, whatever can you mean...'

The subsequent glare and unintentional pout he wore for the next few minutes spoke volumes about just what he thought of Wynne's powers of observation.

Showing no sign of having heard their exchange, from some way ahead Lys raised her hand at her companions, gesturing for them to halt and be silent.

'What is it?' Alistair hurried up to her to ask.

'Tell everyone to stop,' she commanded, quietly yet clearly. The caravan formation they travelled in meant that not all of them were in easy earshot, unless she were to shout. Alistair passed the message along the line.

'_Andaran atish'an_, _lethallan_.' An elf stepped suddenly into view not five paces away, causing everyone to jump to ready their weapons, except for Lys. The hunter bore facial markings similar to hers, but more sprawling and intimidating, covering most of her angular face. This, along with her deep-set eyes and ash blonde hair tied austerely back, gave her quite a formidable countenance. 'We have been expecting your arrival, though we know not what to make of it. I am Mithra.'

'_Aneth ara_. I am Mahariel, of the Sabrae clan.' There was some embarrassed shifting going on behind her as everyone realised they were not actually under threat. '...You expected us?'

'Yes,' she nodded, 'One of our scouts came across your camp late yesterday evening, and we could scarcely believe the report. What brings you to the forest with such... unusual company?'

'My companions and I have been seeking one of the clans in order to collect on a treaty with the Grey Wardens, since the Blight now calls for it. I would speak with your keeper.'

'They are Grey Wardens?' Surprise showed through her severe façade. 'All of them?' Her eyes narrowed with doubt as they skimmed over the train of her unlikely fellow travellers, prompting her to question in Elvish: '_Durgen'len in ma shiral_? _Sa'_Qunari?'

'In fact only Alistair and I are Grey Wardens,' answered Lys quite pointedly in the common tongue, feeling a little beleaguered. She glanced at Alistair. He wore an odd expression, somewhere between startled and fascinated, and his sword-arm was still hovering around its pommel. 'The others are friends aiding us in our task.'

The hunter's piercing gaze lingered on Sten, probably having never seen a Qunari before, and she replied, civilly, if a little curtly. 'If that is so, I will gladly bring you to Zathrian, our keeper. Come with me.'

'_Ma serannas_.' Lys then turned to the others, 'Sheathe your weapons. We will be protected.'

They followed Mithra to the Dalish camp. The temporary dwelling place of the elves was made up of little more than a few campfires outlined by their aravels, and dotted about with a few storage chests containing all the worldly possessions they required. A short distance away on enclosed pastureland was where they kept the halla, who pulled the Dalish aravels.

Mithra led the group to a much older elf, whose root-like _vallaslin _marked him as revering the Creator-mother and protector, Mythal. He also had no hair on his head, a fact that struck Lys as odd.

'Hmm. I see we have guests. And I see one of our own among them. Tell me, Mithra, who are these people?'

'This is Mahariel, Keeper, of the Sabrae clan. They have come regarding Grey Warden matters and wished to be brought to you.'

'You are wise to do so. _Ma serannas, _Mithra. You may return to your post.'

'_Ma nuvenin, _Keeper,' She inclined her head in respect and stalked off back the way they had come.

'Mahariel? Yes... At the last _Arlathvhen_ Keeper Marethari spoke of you. She imparted that you are one of their most accomplished hunters, for all your youth.'

Lys wanted to wince at the mention of her former keeper, but hoped she hadn't shown it. She had not thought that she would be known by anyone here.

'Have you come to bring word of the Blight? I know of the corruption spreading throughout the southern lands. I would have already moved the clan on, but, alas, we have problems of our own.'

'We come bearing ancient Grey Warden treaties, one signed by the Dalish long ago,' Lys replied. 'Regretfully, it falls to us to ensure that the clans now honour their promise to combat this evil. To what problems do you refer, Keeper?'

'Let us speak of the matter later, once you and your companions have rested and eaten. Undoubtedly your passage through the forest was not without its obstacles.'

'We would gladly accept your hospitality, though I think it best that we establish our own camp close by. We encountered some wolves and giant spiders on our way here, but nothing of consequence.'

'Very well, hunter. It seems you have been fortunate. Speak to Lanaya, my First, for anything you need. She will bring you to me when you are ready.' He inclined his head to Lys briefly before disappearing beyond the treeline encircling the camp.

Zathrian's words resonated with a strong sense of foreboding. It seemed that whatever these problems were, they would require no small amount of explanation. Furthermore, she could not shake off her unease at hearing that Marethari had mentioned her to him.

Lanaya turned out to be an amenable sort; she showed them the best place to set up camp, arranged food for their party and could even be said to be friendly towards the non-elves among them. Although they were reserving the important questions for when they could meet with Zathrian again, Lanaya was happy to answer their other queries while they pitched tents. In fact, the First had many questions of her own. She was very curious to know about Lys' experiences away from her clan, and marvelled at her descriptions of the human towns she had visited; sprawling, claustrophobia-inducing Denerim in particular seemed to fascinate Lanaya.

'So places like that really exist? Thousands of people all packed in behind stone walls? It must be so noisy... and cramped.'

'There are almost no plants, no trees, either. The whole thing creates an unsettling atmosphere,' Lys recalled with a shudder the first time she had set foot in the human capital.

'No plants! I can't imagine living like that.'

'We had a tree.' Lys was surprised to find Cristiana joining in their conversation.

'In the alienage. The _vhenadahl_ – our _hahren _looked after it...' She trailed off.

Lanaya looked dolefully at the city elf. 'I suppose that is something, at least.'

After chatting awhile she left them to it. Not wishing to keep Zathrian waiting, Lys and Alistair ate their meal quickly. The day was winding down, nearing Lys' favourite time of day; when late afternoon begins to hint at the peace of the evening to come.

The pair of them walked the short distance to the Dalish camp side by side, staying closer together than mere friendship would dictate. Though keenly aware of the statement she would be seen to make, she was surprised at how little she cared.

While it was refreshing to be back in her favoured natural environment, she felt oddly detached from her kin. Being among another clan would not normally cause such feelings of not belonging, for all Dalish looked out for their own. But, she supposed, these were no normal times, and this was the first that she had returned to her people since... The awful circumstances of her departure probably had a lot to do with her unease as well, she rationalised.

They walked together across the boundary made up by the stationed aravels, past the small gathering at the campfire through to Lanaya's post. They found her sitting on the patchy ground seemingly deep in thought, not dissimilar to how Sten would meditate.

'Sorry to interrupt.' Lys wanted to get the meeting with the keeper over with as swiftly as possible, only she couldn't put her finger on what had made her feel so strongly about it.

Lanaya's kind eyes opened. Lys could have sworn they widened slightly in surprise upon seeing her with Alistair, or rather, upon seeing her stand like that with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands nearly touching. She got up abruptly with none of that fabled elven grace.

'Pardon me, I was thinking about our dilemma and... You're here to see Zathrian, I'm sure?'

'Please lead the way, _lethallan._' Lys was impressed by her manners. Most anyone from her own clan would never have let slide her familiar attitude towards the human, Grey Warden or no, not that any such condemnation would have dissuaded her.

The First led them away towards a private clearing secluded from the main camp, and as soon as they could see beyond the shelter of the foliage their eyes were met with a lamentable scene. At least a dozen elves lay sprawled around the area on bloodstained bedrolls, most of them clearly in agony, and all of them with not long for this world.

Battle-hardened though she thought she was, their open wounds and pitiful groans resonated with her own memories of grave injury, and Lys was unable to conceal her horror.

'What happened to these people?' she asked of Lanaya next to her.

She only nodded silently towards the far side of the clearing, where Zathrian was tending to a young hunter. He was barely more than a boy, the blood writing scarcely dry on his face. He was missing a leg.

At length Zathrian stood up and came over to them, his head bowed in solemnity.

'Wardens. There is a curse plaguing these parts of the Brecilian Forest. For weeks now we have been trying to escape it but so many of us are injured that travel is no longer viable. The attacks we have suffered... were caused by werewolves.'

Both disbelieving and wholly unnerved, Lys reeled. 'How have I never heard of such a thing before? The other clans... they know not of the existence of any werewolves. How do you know them to be so?'

'I know what they are. Do not presume that I would foolishly mistake a bear or rabid wolf for these unnatural beasts. They are very real.'

Alistair spoke up, 'Well this is unexpected.' He looked to Lys on his left, his expression tense with alarm.

'There are ancient tales...' she directed back to him, 'but I never would have believed...' She shook her head incredulously.

Zathrian gestured around at the wounded, 'Those of them who survive, eventually suffer a transformation which cannot be prevented. All the hunters you see here will either become werewolves themselves, losing their minds to bestial rage and forcing us to kill them, or they will simply die.

'If you can help us end this curse, we will fulfil the terms of our treaty and be forever indebted to you.'

'...It sounds to me like you have some clue as to how we do it.' Alistair seemed better able to conduct the meeting than Lys at present, who was still absorbing the massacre in front of her as well as the wide-reaching implications of Zathrian's words.

'I do.'

'I suppose you'd better explain it, then.'

* * *

><p>After nightfall, the Dalish camp livened up somewhat, relatively speaking. Zathrian had extended an invitation to Lys and the others to join them for the evening meal, which was accepted courteously if not too eagerly by a few. The vast majority of Dalish were incapable of tolerating a human presence for ten minutes, never mind sharing supper with four of them at once. Lys saw that Zathrian was trying to show a great deal of goodwill and trust in her by way of this offer. Since the promise of a meal was not enough to sway Sten into partaking in the strained social trivialities, he opted to stay behind to keep watch in the other camp, along with the dog. This was the best way for both parties, as the removal of their formidable combined presence seemed to cause palpable relief among the elves.<p>

The whole clan and their guests ate gathered around the main campfire. The meal itself was more satisfying than the uninitiated among them had ever thought to expect, and as the bowls were taken away to be washed more than one of the newcomers found themselves genuinely enjoying the atmosphere.

Before long, the clan elder, _hahren_ Sarel, was called upon to tell a story. His acquiescence was, predictably, met with mixed feelings from Lys' companions.

'And what tales should I relate for our unlikely guests? Perhaps they wish to hear about the Creators?'

'Tell them of Shartan, and how he led us to glory!' A brash looking male shouted his belligerent suggestion, as if in defiance of the enforced civility.

'No, tell them the fall of _Halamshiral_, the loss of the Dales!' Murmurs of agreement resounded among several in the audience before spawning a spontaneous harmony of weathered elven voices.

'_Vir Elvhenan Suledin, Vir Uth Revas Elvhen!_' These words were lifted up like a sacred chant around the campfire, every Dalish repeating the words in a cycle. Lys herself felt compelled to add her voice to theirs, the strength of the habit unshakable. She muttered along under her breath. Eventually things settled down to calm and Sarel spoke again.

'No, no, they ought to be well-acquainted with those histories already... Let's have something they won't have heard before.'

She felt a nudge from her left and saw Alistair trying to get her attention.

'What was that?' he whispered.

'"We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."' She recited the translation faithfully for him, her green eyes unseeing, mind lost in thought.

'Please, _hahren_,' piped up an auburn-haired youth in tones that really grated on Lys, 'We'd like to hear the tale of Saelan and Tandil, you never tell that one! Please...' Lys felt herself roll her eyes at the girl's whiny request. She was a pretty one, with perky features, and, it seemed, a penchant for cloying drivel.

'I 'd sooner hear a tale about a halla's backside...'

'Yrion! Hush!' hissed a woman whom Lys supposed was the mother of the boy named Yrion, who begrudgingly shut his mouth after a huff of protest. Although he received many angry glares, Lys felt she agreed with him.

'...If I may?' Morrigan's distinctive sound rang out presumptuously through the hubbub. 'I would very much like to hear something of significance. A history, rather than folklore.'

Though somewhat taken aback, Sarel did not seem offended, and mulled it over. 'Very well. ' Sarel told the tale of the birth of their clan, hundreds of years ago, before a youthful Zathrian was appointed the honour of keeper, and entrusted with his own flock. As the _hahren _spoke Lys couldn't help but think of her own clan's storyteller, Paivel, with a bittersweet twist of her lips. She never had patience for the Elder's stories when she was young; she thought she'd heard everything a thousand times before. Now she wished she had respected him enough to listen. But she couldn't have guessed how she would soon have to leave all of it behind.

'...When the sky was aglow with stars, finally it was done. His newly cut _vallaslin _came alive in the moonlight, as if Mythal herself blessed his decision with her love and protection. And Mythal has guided him gracefully ever since.'

The general hush brought on by the storytelling more or less lasted through the evening afterwards, and many elves had retired to their aravels. Morrigan left as soon as the tale was finished, expressing distaste at its lack of historic value. Alistair and some of the other companions wished to know more about blood writing, and Lys was happy to answer their questions. She even felt a flush of pride when Leliana said she thought it very beautiful.

Eventually there were only a few younger elves around the fire, joined by Alistair, Cristiana, Leliana and Lys. Zevran had slinked off somewhere and Wynne had excused herself. The chatter had turned somewhat casual due to the more intimate setting. Lys poked idly at the fire, content for the moment to listen to the others' conversations.

'...I don't know, it seems foolish to want to bond with someone who is still an apprentice, but he's always been so kind to me. I shouldn't even be discussing this with an outsider, but it's nice to have a new person's perspective...'

Crissy was delighted to have made a friend. 'He seems really sweet, Gheyna, but, if you're not so sure about him, well...' She spotted a handsome youth by the halla, 'How about him! He ain't bad. And he's got his blood writing as well.' It seemed that she was wasting no time getting acquainted with the young elves and their romantic dilemmas.

'Who, Deygan?' The teenaged elf suppressed a giggle before commenting, 'Well, I guess he's nice too. And he's a fully-fledged hunter—'

'_Fully-fledged_, ay?' Crissy laughed.

At this Lys gave in and had to look round to sneak a glance at the suggested replacement, a move which the adjacent Alistair couldn't help but notice.

He raised his eyebrows at her in amusement. After a pause, he said so only she could hear, 'So... What do you think?'

She rolled her eyes at him. Crissy definitely had a point though; from what she'd gleaned so far, Cammen was a dreadful excuse for a Dalish and this Deygan seemed a more capable choice. She smiled inwardly at Crissy.

'Ooh, why not let's call him over here?' Leliana was joining in. 'We could help you get to know him better.' The bard's coquettish tone suddenly induced a strong urge to smack her palm to her own head at the absurd inappropriateness of the entire thing. _Have those two been drinking?_

'I, for one, had no idea you two were in the matchmaking business,' Alistair quipped.

'Well Alistair, perhaps you ought to make use of our service yourself sometime? You may be pleasantly surprised, no?'

Alistair was beginning to blush as he attempted to mumble out a response. Thereupon Lys stood up rather conspicuously to leave, although now she was grinning in earnest despite herself. 'That's enough nonsense for me. I hope Zevran's behaving himself better than you are.'

'You know that's as likely as a magical dwarf.' Leliana's sarcasm expressed no less than what everyone was thinking, save those who had just made his very charming acquaintance.

'Then maybe you'd better track him down. I'm turning in for the night – be good.'

A chorus of 'good night's trailed after her as she walked off along the mulchy path to the other camp.

'So, do you know whatpattern you want to get on your face, Gheyna?' Alistair asked the girl, wanting to renew the conversation with a different topic.

'I haven't thought about it that much yet, but I've always identified with Sylaise, she who taught us how to make fire, how to heal and how to be a good mother. My mother honours Sylaise on her face.'

Leliana crooned, 'Oh, how lovely!'

Gheyna continued, 'But I won't have to decide for a while.' She looked at Crissy, 'I didn't know that alienage elves paint their faces too. What does it mean?'

Cristiana reflexively smoothed down the front of her hair. 'Lots of elves have tattoos – we just pick designs that we fancy. Mine represents this blue flower which grows in the shade of the city walls in Denerim. What does your mother's one look like?'

As Gheyna started to trace the design, Alistair suddenly bade them good night as well, and took off into the trees after Lys.

The girl paused, one fingertip hovering in the dirt. '...Is there something wrong with your friend? He acts... differently compared to other humans we've come across.'

Leliana chuckled at her naïve observation, whereas Cristiana just shrugged.

'Don't you mind Alistair,' the bard explained, 'He seems to be having a few difficulties of his own.'

* * *

><p><em>The girl raised her head. She was ready. She was always ready. The <em>hahren _intoned the supplication to the Creators, solemn and decorous as the occasion demanded. Better that her burgeoning excitement remain just under the surface, thought she; its source was forbidden. She would wear her mask well for the duration._

_Her mother came to kneel beside her once the prayers were finished, and took the girl's hand comfortably in her own. The time had come to make known her choice._

'Dirth vir nuvenin, len him asha sahlin.' _So spoke the _hahren _for this fidgety youth, as he had for many before her._

_She took a breath and lifted up her sober voice for the clan to be in no doubt of her reply: _'Dirthamen, ar nuvenin na enansal.'

_Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, master of the ravens Fear and Deceit. This was the path she had chosen. She was aware many of her kin would see it as unusual, but to this adolescent spirit it made all the sense in the world._

_The _hahren _exchanged looks with the keeper of clan Sabrae – his of mild surprise, hers of unfathomable prescience – and she afforded him the slightest of nods. Her First, standing apart from the rest ever at the keeper's side, curled her pretty lips into a smile._

_The keeper now began the rite proper. There stood a small, ornate box between her and the girl. The container's exquisite carvings were of a design unique to the clan, belying the seeming insignificance of the plainly crafted tool she removed from it._

_At this point in the ceremony, the presence of the whole clan was no longer required, for it was a lengthy and painstaking process. They could come and go, watch or not watch. Either way the girl would fulfil her part as she knew she must – in unwavering, arduous silence._

_The first cut – shallow and smarting – scraped at the surface of her mental preparation. Nothing too distressing. Perhaps her breath hitched slightly, then again maybe not. The blood writing continued. Sharp pain evolved to a dull throbbing behind her eyes, but did not lessen. She closed them, retreating inside. Hand twitched in her mother's hold. Lines of fire were traced with masterful skill, across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose. The taste of pain intensified stroke by stroke, sour like acid on her tongue. When it eventually reached nauseating heights, her watering eyes opened, seeking from the blur the one face that would give her all the strength she needed to endure. _

_Tamlen stood out amongst the congregation, tall yet with fresh skin unmarked, her friend looked perturbed. He was not the one. She glanced around elsewhere. Over the keeper's other shoulder, a new figure swam into view. She blinked hard, trying to disperse the tears of pain. Rich brown, the particular warm hue that had become so known and beloved by her, framed indistinct features. She tried to focus on them, to will them into clarity; instead they slipped away with her effort, dissolving the rest of the memory along with them._

_Her heart beats faster now. She is by the lake. Her secret place. Whenever Tamlen had hurt her with harsh words, incited by the ardour of adolescence; whenever she had been chided by the elders, wishing to escape her role as child of none and all; whenever she felt alone in the world, and wanted to balance the feeling with reality; this was the place to which she ran. Tempered by the stillness of the water, she never failed to find peace._

_Except this time. The pent up anticipation she has been wrestling with all day is brimming over, and the natural tranquility of the glade only serves to unnerve her further. She paces distractedly back and forth along the shore, her swollen heart heavy with hope. _

_Waiting, always waiting. She never _had_ learned patience. The elders said that made her a bad elf; she said it made things happen._

_The wind sweeps around her, lifting her hair momentarily off her shoulders. Turning with the breeze, the scents of spring cocoon her. _

_He is standing there. The girl's spirit soars. _

'_You came,' she says simply, relief audible in her breathlessness._

_His reply is the rarity that is his smile. He drifts towards her, as calm as she is wild. Impetuous, she closes the distance between them in a blink, her arms take up their place around his neck, one cheek presses up against his chest. Gingerly, he settles his arms to encompass her, cradles her head in his hand._

'_I was so scared you wouldn't...' Her voice unusually mellow, she speaks to him in her most intimate tones._

_Time drips languorously by, diluted by their indifference to it. He extricates his digits from where they are entangled in her hair, careful not to catch on her braid; he takes her by the shoulders, drawing back to look appreciatively upon her new face._

_Finally, his voice comes low and rough. '_Tunehn numin sulevin din.'

_The sound glides over her, a treat for starved ears; she gazes back adoringly, not fully understanding his meaning, but not troubling herself over it either. He lowers his hands to his sides, yet does not wish to retreat._

'"_I am not certain which it brings more of, joy or tears_": _These are the words Falon'Din spoke to Dirthamen, when they were at last reunited beyond the Veil. He was overjoyed that his twin had chosen to follow him to the Beyond, yet full of sorrow for that he had to relinquish his place in life to be with him.' The man casts down his eyes guiltily. 'You... still have a choice, _lethallan...—' _She notes this is the first time he has called her that_ '—..._and I only hope you will choose to live as you deserve_.'

_How his words incensed her! She throws hurt looks around the glade, brow furrowed at the offence, mouth opening and closing with no words forthcoming. What about everything they had talked about, secrets and promises whispered, with only the dawn as their witness? Deep breath in. Out._

_Her hand presses firmly around his. 'Rellan.' She says, in the grave manner of address reserved for when she really means business. 'Tell me this isn't because I am not good enough, and that'll be all I need to know.'_

_He looks up from the ground, pools of liquid amber stare placidly through her, burning into her vision. Quiet, shining remorse._

'_I am deeply sorry if I have ever let you think that. I am held back for the very opposite reason.' _

_At this, the girl allows herself a small smile. _My heart can stay whole for another day, _thinks she. 'I have already made my choice.'_

_With no further delay, she touches her lips to his; her kiss is affectionate and pure, as if there could be nothing simpler than their love. She takes hold of his other hand as well, enjoying the contours and texture of the skin, the elegant, talented fingers. _

'_Come.' She suggests, leading him down to the water's edge. She slips out of her boots, savours the damp earth between her toes. Facing away from him, she sets about removing her armour, bequeathed to her on this day. He looks away, abashed, as she sheds the upper portion unreservedly, baring her body to the playful breeze, and then more slowly unfastens her lower armour, climactically side-stepping out of the garments fallen at her feet. She has never felt so free._

_At last she turns around, wanting him to see her, to see everything. Sensing this, and fearful of dishonouring her, timidly, he allows himself to look._

'Emma era su,' _he breathes. He looks almost dazed. He squeezes her to his chest. Kisses the top of her head. 'You make me so happy, Lys.' _

_She whispers clearly to him. '_Ar nuvenin ma'uth dar u din_. "I do not want you to be alone, ever." I expect that was Dirthamen's reply.'_

_The man leans down to kiss her with renewed passion, his self-imposed shackles overcome only by the fervour of her devotion. She melts into him, the warmth coming off his body precious against her bare skin, and he allows his repressed longing free reign in his attentions._

_She is thrilled by the act of helping him undress. It feels at once mundane and yet so charged with implication. She had seen naked males uncounted times, but, before this relationship, had never much desired to look at one with more in mind than childlike curiosity._

_They wade into the pool. Splashing around impishly, she shatters the dark mirror, and he glides smoothly in her wake. _

_She is grinning. He twitches his mouth back at her. She reaches out to him, shoulders just above the surface, and he obeys. _

'_I want this,' she imparts next to his ear, knowing that he seeks reassurance. 'And you do, too.' _

'_My desires hardly matter.'_

'_They matter to me.' She coils herself around him; the tepid water feels like nothing._

_They are floating in nothing. _

_Her stomach gives a sudden lurch, and all at once the forest seems terribly _wrong_. It won't stay still, yawing and skewing unnaturally about her, its colours tainted and seeping. She wants to scream but is inexplicably paralyzed, the images before her eyes seem to be the only things able to move and adapt with the now-foreign landscape._

_Cold dread seeps over her. They are here. She can sense them, and therefore they can her also. _

Where is my bow? _she panics. Like trying to drag a dead weight through thickest sludge, she wills her legs to move, excruciating and slow. It occurs to her that it won't be enough, the Horde will inevitably reach her, but she mustn't give up. She begins to hear them, but not with her ears; it starts like a soundless scratching on the inside of her skull, leeching her sanity, mounting to a silent roar that fills her mind and renders her incapable of thinking clearly._

_She doesn't want to see. She only knows that if she sees them, it will mean the end of everything. But she cannot shut her eyes. She is powerless. The indistinct horizon bleeds into heaven and earth alike, the hellish sky smouldering above the world, fed by her fear._

Lys awoke with a great gasp of breath, her heart pounding almost painfully, and lay there blinking hard for a moment. Her dream had been even more vivid than usual, though its subject and form were nothing new. As the last of the adrenaline dispersed through her veins, she sat up in the gloam of her tent, trying to gauge the time. She opened the flap to a small slit, peering outside. It was still completely dark and daybreak seemed hours away, so she retreated into her bed of furs, but did not attempt to sleep again.

Though her eyelids were heavy and unforgiving from the interrupted deep sleep, her body grew increasingly restless with each passing minute. There was nothing for it but to get up, at least for a while. She threw on some linen clothes and ventured out towards the fire.

'Couldn't you sleep?' said the tawny-haired man as he caught sight of her.

She grunted back at him as she settled down on a seat, chin resting on her fists.

He smiled at her typically minimalistic reply, and came to sit down next to her.

'Who else is on watch tonight?'

'It's just me and the dog. But I have a feeling he's shirking duty and snoozing somewhere. Anyway, I'm sure we'd know soon enough if either camp were being attacked.'

'True enough.' Her mind still on the dream, Lys wasn't much keen on conversation, hardly looking at Alistair at all. When finally she felt him trying to gain her attention by staring at her she afforded him a bleary gaze, as if to say, '..._What?_'

'I've got something for you, actually. And this is probably as good an opportunity to give it to you as I'm likely to get.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'll go and get it. Just wait here.'

It wasn't like she was going anywhere. She also couldn't deny that she was mildly intrigued.

He came out from his tent a minute later with something in his hand, which he held out to her after a moment of fumbling hesitation.

'Here.'

She glanced up at the offering. 'That's... It's _Da'assan _blossom. I don't know what humans would call it.'

He crouched down in front of her as she took it tentatively from him. 'That's a much nicer sounding name than our "Bowman's Sprig"'. I'd never seen it growing in the wild until today. Or well, 'til yesterday.'

'It's not an uncommon sight in this forest.' She slowly rolled the twig-like stem between her thumb and forefingers, staring absently at the pretty spray of tiny white flowers. 'Hm,' she said, 'Interesting that in both languages the name comes from the same idea.'

'Does it? What does the Elvish mean?'

'"Little Arrow." The way the flowers cluster like this, they form a shape like an arrowhead.'

'Huh. Well, I suppose that is rather appropriate for the person receiving it.'

'So... Why are you giving this to me?'

His face fell, confusion and doubt taking over his features, as he stumbled through his next words, 'Ah, I thought you might like it... and I guess, in a way, it sort of made me think of you.'

'You're giving me a flower? But why?' she said in a bewildered tone.

'I guess it's a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought... it's a shame that you didn't get to have any of the good experiences of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. There's been nothing but death and fighting and tragedy... I wanted to tell you that there is someone who appreciates you and everything you're doing against the Blight. But... would you rather I didn't?' He sounded apologetic, most probably because of the way she was staring at him a little insensitively, with one eyebrow raised.

'Okay... What do you expect me to do with it?'

He spluttered, clearly not expecting this response after his sentimental speech. 'Well, nothing, really! I mean, what is anyone supposed to do with a flower? Keep it, ideally. Or... throw it away discreetly when I'm not looking. Or refuse it, as you seem to be doing. But that's okay, my heart will go on.' His jocular tone was not entirely successful in masking the disappointment in his voice, she noted. Wary of accidentally hurting his feelings, she chose her next words more carefully.

'I'm sorry, Alistair, I honestly don't know what you mean. You want me to take this flower and carry it around in my pack? Till it wilts or what?'

He sighed at length and hung his head in his hands. She wondered if she wasn't being incredibly dense.

Without looking up at her he said, defeatedly, 'Don't elves give each other flowers as gifts?'

Realisation finally dawned. 'Ohh!' _An unfamiliar human custom, then_.

If her cheeks were the type inclined to redden, they probably would have become pleasantly rosy at this point. 'No, they don't. Not really. There are so many growing happily everywhere to enjoy, why would we pick individual ones as gifts only to have them wither and die?'

'I see. That ...makes sense actually. Forget it then. It was just a stupid impulse.'

'No, it's—I'll take it. If that's what you want.'

'If _you _want.'

She flashed him a brilliant grin for the first time in quite a while, according to the muscles around her mouth. The thought crossed her mind that she really ought to make use of them more.

'Thank you, Alistair. So... what does this mean? Does it mean we're...?' she trailed off, feeling unusually foolish and not knowing what to say.

Alistair had shifted his weight onto his knees, allowing him to lean in closer to her. She watched him slowly close his eyes, his lips inching tortuously towards her own. Instinctively she mirrored his movement, her breath hitching in her throat, the previous moment's misunderstanding melting away in the sudden heat between them. When their lips finally touched, she involuntarily gave a small sound, barely more than a sigh, and she surrendered herself entirely, moving her lips gently along with his.

The kiss was tamer and more timid than their first; this time it was he who had instigated it. Its pace was much slower, more tender, and she wanted to savour it. It came as a very pleasant surprise then when he even began to use his tongue, tasting her lips as if to request permission. She parted them gladly, and a delicious warmth spread through her body as the tip of his tongue entered her mouth.

When they finally drew apart, he spoke first, softly, the raw emotion audible in his ragged speech.

'I hope that... wasn't too soon.'

She hesitated for a second to collect herself, excitement coursing through her, before speaking very deliberately, voice laced with as much seduction as she could muster. 'I don't know, Alistair, too soon for what, exactly?' She licked her darkened lips.

'I... What do you... Uhh...' Despite the thrilled grin plastered on his face, he looked around hurriedly as he struggled to speak. _Searching for an escape route, maybe? _

Even his ears started showing up pink. She said so, and he laughed. _I guess it is too soon, for him._

So she kissed him again before leaving for her bed.

* * *

><p>No one had cared to warn them that the werewolves were just as able to talk back as they were to fight back. This unsettled Lys to the point of wishing to turn the party around and question Zathrian further about them – it didn't feel right to be attacking these beasts when they were clearly sapient, and their motives unclear. Nevertheless they pressed on exploring the forest for many hours until they stumbled across none other than the objectified hunter from the evening before, grievously wounded and barely conscious. Wynne did her best to patch him up but they had to take Deygan back to camp, so they were forced to call it a day.<p>

Reuniting with Cristiana in the evening was certainly eventful. What began as a bout of sociable drinking ended with a bout of rather underhanded brawling. It was in that moment when Lys dragged Crissy out of the fight that she realised several things. Firstly, that Crissy could never realistically hang around with the Dalish until securing passage home, not with such open hostility among some of the clan. Secondly, she didn't want her to. Lys had caught a glimpse of something, which she knew she wanted to bring with them. Crissy had demonstrated a kind of resourcefulness Lys had not anticipated from her, and an equally unexpected ruthlessness. Thirdly, Lys realised that this was not her home. She had felt strangely disconnected from her people since encountering them again, but now she could put her finger on why. She had come from the Dalish, but she was a Warden. The Wardens did not have time to waste on petty prejudices bred by the separate lives of elves and men. There was only one war, and it could mean the end of everything.


	8. Marla Needs a Pay Rise

As Crissy blinked the dawn light out of her eyes and tried to disregard the dull pain of the bruises left by Vallestra the night before, she wondered how in flaming hell she had got herself into this situation. Zevran had, for the third time, just sent her sprawling to the floor. Wearily she pulled herself up once again and obediently resumed a fighting stance, though she raged at him in her head: How am I supposed to learn anything if you just beat me up? Barely having time to comfortably grasp her long dagger, Zevran resumed his ferocious onslaught that sent jarring vibrations down her arm. Leliana had been nothing like this when they had practised together.

After the fight with Vallestra, Crissy had reckoned the Dalish would be more trouble than the werewolves, and thankfully Lys had reluctantly given in to Crissy's pleading that she be allowed to accompany them into the forest today. Desperate not to become dog food, at dawn Crissy had started practising with her new Dalish dagger. After some routine exercises she had been on her way back to camp when she had passed Zevran, who had typically enquired as to what lascivious activity had caused her to be so flushed and sweaty. When she replied, he persuaded her to accompany him back out of the camp to be his sparring partner. And so we come upon the scene of Zevran beating seven shades of shit out of our reluctant heroine. Having been tortured and trained by the crows since childhood, Zevran felt he was going easy on her.

Zevran's unflustered superiority, as he elegantly deflected and reversed any attack Crissy tried to make on him, began to rile her up to the point that she could no longer suppress the anger which swept through her body, bringing a heightened focus to the fight, as she moved with flawless speed. At last she actually managed to twist past Zevran and with a backhand, jab him with her pommel so that he stumbled ever so slightly. Elated that she had finally landed a blow, Crissy lost her concentration and before she realised what was happening, found herself flat on her back again. Zevran's smug face appeared above her, "Don't ever get complacent."

Crissy had had enough. She sat up, wincing, "Thanks for your help, I really appreciate it, but I think we should get back to camp, Lys will probably be wanting to head off soon." She got up and walked carefully back to camp: now she had a great deal more bruises to complement those on her face; certainly enough to enable her to hide naked in a basket of Orlesian plums.

* * *

><p>As they penetrated further into the depths of the forest, they passed clusters of stinking werewolf and darkspawn remains, left from the day before, and Crissy couldn't hide her rising anxiety from Leliana, who comforted her. "If we encounter trouble, stay close to me and Wynne, and you can use your throwing knives – don't get into the main fray."<p>

When they did inevitably encounter trouble, Crissy successfully managed to avoid the eye of the storm, providing backup from the fringes of the fight. After they had stumbled upon and promptly disposed of a band of aggressive bandits, Lys called for as short break, as they all took advantage of the campsite nearby left by the unfortunate rascals. Amongst some tatty bedrolls and a large supply of moonshine and dubious, salted meat was a locked chest, but Leliana struggled when she tried to unlock it. Lys found herself wondering what the point of Leliana was, and appealed to Zevran, "You were so skilled earlier in fiddling around in that old hermit's tree trunk – surely you can help Leliana?"

"Alas, though I am a paragon of excellence in most areas of life, when it comes to complicated locks I have always been quite useless." He smiled charmingly. Going through the door, even if it was locked, was far too obvious when an unguarded back-window was easily found. Or, failing that, getting through a door with nothing more than charisma was much more satisfying a challenge. "Of course, if there are any more mysterious orifices you would like me to poke around in, my excellent Warden, you need only ask." Sten strode forward and, informing Leliana that she should move out of the way, took a large swing at the chest, which shattered open, its valuable innards spilling outwards over the ground. Lys wondered how she had ever got through life without Sten.

* * *

><p>Marching into a clearing Lys discerned some scattered ruins in the distance, half-consumed by the surrounding greenery and, although the sun was just beginning to slide below the horizon, she increased her pace towards the crumbling structures. The encounters with Swiftrunner had confirmed her suspicions that there was more to the situation than what Zathrian had said, and she was keen to get to the truth. As she led the group through a small graveyard, her eagerness to push forward caused her to be less careful with her footing than usual and she felt something crack and collapse under her boot. Lys looked down to see that she had walked over some ritualistic wards placed over a grave. A black plume of smoke slithered upwards from under her foot, twining around her leg, freezing her flesh. Before she could retreat Lys was thrown backwards, landing awkwardly on a tombstone, as a giant, armoured corpse reared up from the smoke, clothed in a dark, rippling mist.<p>

Crissy was alarmed to find herself suddenly surrounded by corpses risen from their graves. She had no time to retreat and use projectiles, forced to pull out her dagger and defend against a sharp swipe to her chest. Unlike other foes she had fought, including darkspawn, these things did not stop fighting once their critical organs had been pierced, or even, as Crissy soon discovered, if their heads were hacked off. When they were cut, however, putrid, black blood would gush swiftly out of the holes, and once enough had drained out, the creatures would fold inwards and sink to the ground. Crissy's Dalish dagger was thrillingly sharp and she carved rapid lacerations all over the corpses' moist, sagging skin, as their unnatural life-force splattered all over her face and soaked into the earth.

The towering demon at the centre was proving to be much more resilient than his minions and, through no deliberate manoeuvring of her own, Crissy found herself terrifyingly close to the horrific figure. It had just cracked the pommel of its great-sword into Sten, who lurched backwards from the force of it; never before had Crissy seen Sten lurch. She saw an opening and plunged her dagger into the demon's back and sliced downwards, ripping a coarse fissure through the dark fabric of its outline. Screeching, the demon spun around to face her, his imposing form bearing down upon her. She tried to back away, one small dagger raised in defence, but she felt a force pulling her towards the advancing corpse, which was charging a ball of dark, fizzing energy between its clawed gauntlets, faceless behind its glinting helmet. Crissy closed her eyes and hoped for the best.

Just as the demon released the glowing beam of energy, a solid figure hurtled in front of Crissy, intercepting the attack. Bracing his weight against his shield, Alistair withstood the demon's onslaught before charging forward, slamming the creature back. With the rest of the weaker, possessed corpses now cut down, the whole force of the group focussed on the leader, and it was soon sent back down to its grave. After the battle, Crissy had to prise her fingers from her dagger's hilt, which she had clenched so hard her hand had gone numb and stiff. As everyone poked around the remains of the encounter, or tended to their wounds, Crissy watched Alistair from the corner of her eye, wondering how on Maker's green earth she was going to thank him for rescuing her from the revenant. He had saved her life; he had saved her, just as Tristram the Forlorn had saved Lady Ællwystia from the three-headed dolphin, in Crissy's favourite lyric poem: _The Trials of Tristram the Troubadour_. Saving one's beloved from doom was always how the best love stories began.

* * *

><p>Quelling her impatience, Lys felt compelled to abandon her earlier plan of storming the ruins straight away, as everyone, including herself, had taken a bloodied beating from the revenant and needed to rest. Sten was the only one who was not pleased at having an earlier night than usual, for he was the only one who actually respected Lys' ruthless daily schedules. With everyone feeling slightly delicate from the recent battle, camp was set up at a more leisurely pace. Crissy, on the other hand, felt energised by her success in landing a blow on the revenant, not to mention by what she was convinced was her recent brush with death. Furthermore, if someone were to inform Crissy that Alistair's primary function in battle was to take the brunt of the enemy's attack, she would still have held firm in the belief that he had a special regard for her. Given the undemanding task of collecting firewood, she wandered through the trees in a daydream. Finding herself close to the entrance of the ruins, Crissy spied the glistening tips of a circular, fanged trap, partly camouflaged by the long grass. Squatting down next to it Crissy felt confident that the mechanism could be disabled, no trouble. Her fingers lightly made contact with the contraption, which gave a slight shudder, then lay still as she continued to tamper with it. As the days had passed since Crissy had tagged along with Lys and the others, her feeling of ineptitude had increased. Clearing these traps by the entrance would surely be helpful – Maker knows she needed to do something to make up for head-butting that Dalish girl.<p>

_Crunch_. Crissy stared in shock at the rusted shards penetrating into her flesh, their sharp points disappearing under the ashen skin. With a sticky slurp the teeth retracted out of her arm to lie quietly on the floor. It had been deactivated, but Crissy did not think to pull her arm out quickly and her wrist had been caught. Still mesmerised, she continued to gaze at the same spot, where crevices lined with bone and muscle soon blossomed with bright, red blood. She watched the blood pour out over her arm until waves crashed in her ears and everything went black. She could not escape the raw pain for long, however, as her sight soon returned, blurring all the colours around her, while her arm thundered in agony. Her body burned and faces swam around her vision. She thought for a moment she saw Marcus; then, she was transfixed by her mother's image, surrounded by flames, crimson skin beginning to warp and blister, melting off her face. The excruciating heat then began to recede, as did the vision of her mother, and a cool, calming energy cleansed through her. She recognised Wynne's face.

"Are you feeling better now? That trap was poisoned; it gave your body quite a shock."

Though dizzy, Crissy tried to sit up.

"Careful, your wrist was broken. I've fixed it but it will be fragile and sore for a while."

Alistair and Lys had heard Crissy cry out, the former running back to get Wynne once they had discovered the elf lying prostrate, her right arm shining with wet blood.

As they all walked back Crissy deemed 'sore' an understatement, as she tenderly cradled her hand to her chest. She resolved to ask Leliana if she might have some of her deathroot extract, on the pretence of using it to poison her dagger. She didn't know what was worse: the pain, or the embarrassment of everyone learning about her stupid accident. Deathroot would soften both.

* * *

><p>Seeing Marcus' face in her mind once again had awakened a flood of recollections, which she brooded over quietly during dinner. She didn't let herself think about Marcus very often, since whenever she looked back, the happy memories became darkly and irreversibly tainted by new perspectives. Whereas at the time all she lived for was the endless nights of fun and laughter, when she looked back, all she could see was the bleakness of the countless mornings-after...<p>

At first she was only aware of an unrelenting heat pressing against her face; then her senses gradually became aware of the rest of her body, unpleasantly sticky with sweat, as the piercing light made the inside of her eyelids look red. She opened her eyes slowly to minimise the stinging as they adjusted to the brightness. Her open mouth was so dry her tongue felt like sandpaper and when she closed her mouth to moisten it, it was flooded with a rotten tang. Breathing in, she was confronted with the rank odour of the room: the bitter smell of stale beer, rancid food, musty sweat and, most noticeably of all, the irrepressible stink of sour vomit. Marcus was lying flat on his back next to her on the bed, more or less naked, his open shirt speckled with orange sick, snoring like a contented baby. The image resurrected a surreal memory of the night before: Marcus sitting on the floor, laughing hysterically as he vomited all over himself.

Crissy dragged herself off the bed, stomach aching, throat burning, while her head span from the remnants of various substances still swimming in her blood. Locating her clothing she carefully extracted them from the mountainous mess surrounding the bed and, as she dressed, could not help but give a thought to Marcus' poor elven housekeeper Marla, who would again be confronted with the usual filth. The Chantry bells cut through the humid atmosphere and Crissy grimaced when she realised how late it was. Straightening up her clothes as much as possible she navigated her way over to Marcus' highly prized looking-glass, which he had bought from a far Western trader with a whole month's allowance. Smoothing down her hair, Crissy did not pay too much attention to the rest of her face, which was far from looking its best. Averting her eyes she noticed an enticing glass of water just in reach; taking an enthusiastic swig she was rewarded with the sharp, waxy taste of alcohol and she spluttered and retched, making Marcus stir. Recovering, she headed towards the bed and, despite his unappealing state, couldn't help but fondly ruffle his hair before leaving.

Using the servant's exit, Crissy squelched down into the streaming alley that backed the row of fancy houses. It was little more than a sewer, flowing with kitchen and chamber pot waste. It wasn't yet noon, but the sun was hot, cooking the sludge, which offered up its viscous fumes. Plastering her sleeve to her mouth and nose, Crissy deftly kept to the slim, drier edges of the passage. She had nearly reached the end when a final obstacle appeared in the form of a putrid dog's carcass, its decayed form crawling with parasites. She was finally overcome by the coarse acids fizzing in her stomach and added her own personal flavour to the bubbling stew.

Late once again, Crissy paid little heed to her Master Triathal's indignant scolding: he was always threatening to give her the sack but she knew her skill with cloth was too valuable. Retreating into the cool, shaded sanctuary of the workshop, Crissy took a long drink of water and sagged into the reassuring softness of her worn, cushioned chair. As her hands took up their well-known rhythms, she was calmed and consoled, cosseted by her familiar comforts, her bodily pains soon forgotten; a few deep breaths from the jars containing the solvents used for dyeing were also handy in separating mind from body.

Triathal made her stay late and when Crissy finally escaped out into the pleasantly glowing dusk – a hearty meal and soft bed on her mind – who should be waiting for her on the other side of the street but Marcus, with his arrogant smile and laughing eyes. His sharp features and finely tailored velvet completely obliterated the undignified image of him on the bed that morning. After brief eye contact (a twitch of her lips, his wink), they headed separately to a nearby, secluded pathway.

"Put on your best dress, Crissy, I met a group of Orlesian troubadours today and – " On seeing Crissy's less than enthusiastic look, Marcus paused. "Andraste's tits, you look happy."

"I'm exhausted, Marcus."

"You're always exhausted, what's wrong with you? Come on, you can't miss this – they'll play all your favourites: _Restless Robin and his Magical Mare_..."

"That does sound lovely, but I've been working all day, I –"

"And I haven't? Been up and down and all around this stinking city running errands for that cunt. I do nothing but his bidding and he holds the purse strings tighter than a leper does his rotting cock."

"You shouldn't be so harsh on your brother, I'm sure he gives you all he can afford."

Marcus' features relaxed into a grin, as he squeezed his arm around her shoulders, "Why are we talking about him anyway? Come out with me, you know you'll enjoy it. There's a bath waiting for you in my rooms; it's probably gone cold by now so I'll have to help warm it up for you." Crissy gradually relented and spent the night dancing under the stars with her sweetheart.

The next day she lost her job; she turned up late, then fell asleep in the workshop, only to be woken up by her irate master. Crissy refused to leave, pleading for another chance, but Triathal was unmoved.

"I told you when you started: I do not employ any girl with a lover – because they become distracted!"

"But Master Triathal, I don't have a lover!"

"If he were an elf, I might be slightly more sympathetic, but as it is..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't take me for a fool, Crissy. Or are you really that naive in thinking I didn't know? I never told anyone before, need felt any need – you were a good worker: skilful and diligent – but if you don't get out of my shop, right now, I don't see why anyone from the alienage shouldn't know what a common shem-cocksucking whore you really are!"

* * *

><p>Crissy was drawn out of her unpleasant memories by Leliana's enquiry.<p>

"Does your wrist still hurt?"

"Not really," Crissy lied, "though there was something I wanted to ask you –"

"Of course I'll play for you! Let me get my lute." It wasn't exactly what Crissy had in mind, but she knew that Leliana's music would soothe her nonetheless.

"D'you know the song, _The Trials of Tristram_? It's one of my favourites."

"I only know the Orlesian version, but I think the tune is the same." Orlesian was as intelligible to Crissy as Holm's barking, but as Leliana began to sing, Crissy replayed the well-cherished narrative in her mind and the music danced pleasingly in her ear:

_Hear me, all who will listen,_

_to the tale of Tristram the Troubled,_

_of his lamentable life, of his dolorous death,_

_and of his bastard half-brother – _

_the Pitiless Prince, Ulrich Raven-Lord..._

When it was time to turn in, Zevran approached silently from behind, placing his hand on Crissy's shoulder, making her start.

"You, my dear, have the honour of keeping first watch with me tonight."

"I do? Since when?"

"Since I told Lys that you specifically requested to be on watch with me tonight."

Crissy spluttered, "Why would you tell her that?"

Zevran waved his hand away, "Let us not question what has been done; come, we shall sit by that tree." She followed him to the outskirts of the camp, like a lamb to slaughter.

* * *

><p>Though everyone else had gone to bed, the dog was still up and about and Crissy wondered whether the drooling beast ever went to sleep. She had heard many stories of disobedient elves being fed to their master's dogs and was convinced Holm was plotting to eat her. She would be dawdling at the back of the group one day and he would snatch her up, while the rest of the party would carry on, unaware of her limbs being gobbled down tastily under the verdant shadows. Though she wasn't sure tonight that Zevran's company was any less dangerous, for the deadliest predators didn't always have fur and fangs.<p>

"No no, you've got it all wrong."

"Do I? Pray enlighten me then, my little ray of sunshine."

"It's obvious –Alistair and Morrigan fancy each other."

Zevran couldn't control his small snort of laughter, "Morrigan. Alistair and _Morrigan_. Unless you have not noticed, they hate each other, nearly as much as a dwarf hates soap. Not to mention he was a templar in training and she's an apostate. I'm sure they have to suppress their natural urges to kill each other on a daily basis."

"Exactly! And that's how all the best love stories are: they were from different worlds, taught to hate each other, but a forbidden love grew out of that hate." She took on a knowing tone, "As my great aunt Gorthil always says, there's a fine line between love and hate." Unfortunately for poor great aunt Gorthil, she had never had a sweetheart and learnt this profound truth from her equally unfortunate friend: a benevolent soul who got slapped about by her amorous husband. Crissy hoped Zevran was right about Alistair and Morrigan though.

"While I am certain your treasured aunt's wisdom surpasses the height of the stars themselves, in her absence I believe that I have an insight or two into love."

"Yeah, the kind that makes the sheets crunchy – but true love? That's a mystery to us all." She sighed ostentatiously and without irony, while Zevran eyed her amusedly.

"Indeed there are many types of love – but if you want to watch one such type develop, you need only look to Alistair and his fellow warden."

Crissy couldn't believe it. "Lys? In love? But she's so, so..."

"Angry?"

"Well not exactly, but when you're in love you're supposed to be swanning about the place with your head in the clouds, am I wrong? Lys is too– too– well, too _practical_ to fall in love."

"I fear for both their sakes that you may be right."

"And besides, she's an elf and he's a human, and a noble – well actually a prince! A bastard prince, but still a prince. It'll never work." I would know, Crissy reflected. She was then immediately annoyed with herself for thinking of Marcus again.

"Ah, but doesn't that fit your 'coming from different worlds' theory perfectly?"

"Well, maybe that's a shitty theory after all. Poor great aunt Gorthil never had much of the brains really – never had much of the anything to be honest. Poor old dear."

"So you have little faith in Lys and Alistair's growing regard for each other? I wonder, is this is a completely impartial assessment?"

Crissy felt her ears go red, "I don't know what you mean..."

"If you think your glances at Alistair are furtive, then believe me, they are not." Crissy responded only by her deepening blush. He continued to speak. "Oh I assure you, he hasn't noticed – whether that makes you feel better, I do not know. I do know, however, that while you have been busy looking at him, I have been busy looking at you."

"What? Why?" She felt more uncomfortable than she could ever remember being in her life. She joked in the face of his provocative gaze. "Do you want to assassinate me or something?"

His smirk deepened, "In a manner of speaking," he leaned forward, "yes." and kissed her.


	9. Heartache and Hardons

**A/N:** _I know i__t's been a long time updating our story, sorry about that. I've just gone back to uni so I have like zero time to write. This one was already 99% done though, and it's long(!) so enjoy :)_

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><p>It was a terrifying sight.<p>

Her head hung cradled in her hands, her posture limp and broken. It was as if all the pride had been crushed out of her, and there was nothing left to prop her up. Her blades and bow lay strewn behind her, and she sat there defencelessly, her grief laid bare to the world.

Lys had been unusually taciturn on the journey away from the elven ruins, and the further they came from them, the less convincing became her veneer of control. It was so extraordinary to see her in such a state that it disconcerted her companions. She was their leader; deemed to be immune to the horrors they so often witnessed, the steadiest rock in these uncertain times. Things hardly ever riled her so, especially not this visibly. That she had lost her nerve over this spoke to them of something above and beyond the trial of deciding the Dalish clan's fate.

The others had tried to get Lys to talk about it once they got back to camp. After Alistair's single timid attempt to discuss it was met with nothing but stony silence, Leliana took it upon herself to prise it out of her, as she paced agitatedly along the length of the campsite. She kicked a lone cookpot out of her path with fervour.

'My friend, tell us what has happened. What was this Rellan, of which Zathrian spoke?'

No response. The elf kept her pace.

'I know a little elven,' Leliana half said this to herself, as she watched Lys stomp around for a stretch. 'It was a person, wasn't it? Someone you knew well?'

She shot daggers in the bard's direction. One didn't have to be on the receiving end to feel the suffering behind her eyes.

'Speak, then!' She exclaimed, not unkindly. 'There is a camp full of people here who know what loss is. And I doubt that any one of them would criticise you for your choices today.'

Lys stopped and twisted around, wretchedness etched into lines on her young face. She looked hard at Leliana before she spoke, unbridled by passion and spite, 'It isn't that. You think I care if anyone judges my actions? You clearly know nothing of me. Don't try to understand. Let me be.'

Leliana's mouth hung open for an instant as she sought the right words. 'You misunderstand my intentions. I didn't mean to pry. Frankly what I cannot understand is the undeserved animosity you always hold towards me.'

'This is nothing to do with you, Leliana!' she positively roared at her, so vehemently that not a few eyes were widened, and Leliana wisely swallowed her nascent retort. She shook her flaming head as she strode away, with no small amount of dignity, to her tent, but the tension stayed hanging in the air like an oppressive cloud.

After this display, Lys started up again, but instead of pacing back and forth, she marched straight off into the forest. The dog trotted up to go with her, but she sent him away before she had reached the tree line. No one else dared follow. Once Lys was out of sight, Crissy disappeared after Leliana.

While the shock subsided, Morrigan couldn't resist commenting. 'Well now. That subtle line of probing was _very_ successful. And to think, supposedly she was once an Orlesian spy. Small wonder she had to join the Chantry then...'

'Morrigan,' Alistair cut her off, 'Not now. I'll... I'll – the Dalish have to be informed of what has happened. Everyone just stay here.' He grabbed up the bundle that contained the heart of Witherfang, put it in his pack, and sighed audibly—'Women's fights'—before departing to speak with Zathrian's First.

The edge of the Dalish camp proper began in just the next clearing, close enough to hear a warning call go out, but far enough that both camps had privacy. Two halla were grazing serenely as he passed, nipping at the grasstips. A chill breeze snaked through the brush, and caught his exposed neck. _Curse this forest._ He felt rather nervous, going to tell the Dalish of Zathrian's demise himself. Without Lys there, would they take him at his word? He began to wish he had brought a couple of companions just in case, but he wasn't going back again. He was done being spineless, indecisive Alistair. The Dalish would simply have to accept it, and honour the Grey Warden treaty as agreed.

Mithra greeted him frostily as he approached. '_Andaran atish'an_, Warden.' Relations with the Dalish had understandably deteriorated somewhat following last night's events. Alistair responded courteously.

'Greetings, Mithra, isn't it? I need to speak to Lanaya.'

'Where is Mahariel?' She eyed him uncertainly, the snakelike markings on her face accentuating the distrust in her expression. She was beautiful indeed, he thought, like so many of her race.

'Maha– Lys is... busy. I have important news that your clan needs to know about.'

'Come.' She turned gracefully and led him towards the main campfire, around which several elves were gathered. 'We have not seen her since your party left this morning. She is safe?' She asked, the apprehension clear in her tone.

'Yes. But I would rather not say more.' This only served to increase her curiosity, but she thankfully stilled any questions on her tongue.

The elder Sarel was the focus of the evening's attention, retelling some tale for a number of avid listeners seated around the fire, Lanaya among them. Alistair didn't know how to interrupt without potentially causing offence. There followed a tense moment when all the elves turned to stare at him, and the elder tailed off mid-sentence, throwing him a dirty look.

Mithra crossed her arms into an unfriendly stance and said, '_Abelas, hahren_. Lanaya, the Warden wishes to speak with you.'

'Warden.' She nodded in acknowledgement, rising to her feet.

'I don't mean to interrupt, but I bring news of the werewolf... situation. There turned out to be much more to it than we anticipated.' Anxious whispering broke out around the campfire, most of it unintelligible to him.

Lanaya indicated that they should move a small distance away. It was wise of her not to want the clan members to hear the news from him, he noted with relief. Once they were some paces away, he hesitated, trying to choose his next words carefully. Lanaya looked ready to cling to them. This was one Dalish who did not wear a mask of cool hostility or indifference in his presence; in fact her concern was tangible.

'Your hunters can now be free of the curse.'

She released an anxious breath, 'That is good news for certain. What of Zathrian?'

'He... is gone. I'm sorry.' _Though not too sorry_. 'He himself was the reason for the werewolf curse in the first place.'

She sighed sadly. 'It is done, then. I... I felt it, when he departed. I think he was ready to go.'

'You _knew_ about what he had done?' The animosity began to swell up in the pit of his stomach.

'I only suspected. But Zathrian did not like to talk about the bitterness of his past. Though I feared for him, I was powerless to help. Even though I was his First, he was never very receptive to my admonitions.'

'I suppose living for a few centuries because of a self-inflicted curse must make you set in your ways...' He didn't wish to be angry at her, but he couldn't help the scorn in his remark. As far as he was concerned, her blind trust in the Keeper had prolonged undue suffering for both men and elves. Beyond that, however, he knew it was not really her fault. It was simply that the whole thing rankled with his sense of justice.

'You live up to your _elvhen_ name, _shemlen_. You are quick to judge. Give me the wolf heart. Zathrian instructed me on what to do with it.'

'It's just... So many centuries, and lives wasted. Because of his need for vengeance. I...- Here.' He got out the bundle wrapped in several layers of rough cloth, and she took it off him gingerly. 'I want to understand your people, Lanaya, but your guardedness makes that very difficult.'

Her doe eyes took on an empathetic look. 'I know. I regret that it has to be like this, but we Dalish have lost so much. If constant vigilance helps to keep us safe, then it is a small price to pay. If there could be another way... a way not to be at odds with humans and every outsider, I would gladly try it.

'It will be difficult to... fill Zathrian's shoes, as you might say. He will be sorely missed.' She paused wistfully. 'Ultimately you are right. He has failed in his oath to Mythal, and his duty to protect the clan. But I am Keeper now. I hereby swear to uphold the terms of the ancient contract my people formed with the Grey Wardens. Call, and we shall come, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This I swear.'

'Thank you, Lanaya.' Alistair fought with himself momentarily over whether to ask what he was dying to ask, or simply to leave it at that.

'Is there something more?'

'If I may? I have a question about something that happened with Zathrian just before he died.'

'Go ahead, although I am not certain if I will even know the answer. There was much that Zathrian did that I may never understand.'

'He... he said something in elven to Lys and then she, she sort of, dropped to her knees... and he said that he very much regretted what he did. But it sounded like he was apologising to her personally, not just for the curse and the werewolves and... well...'

He gauged her reaction, hoping it could tell him something. At first, a brow furrowed in deliberation, and then a definite realisation drained the light from behind her eyes.

'You know something about this, clearly.'

She glanced over at the gathering of her kin at the campfire, and deliberately took a few steps further away from them. Alistair was obviously meant to follow.

She even lowered her voice so there was no doubt that their talk was now private. 'Did what he said sound like, "_ar tu _Rellan_'din"_?' She pronounced the elvenwords slowly and unmistakably.

'He definitely said "Rellan" more than once, yes. What does it mean?' An uneasy excitement quickened his heart.

She answered him as if her thoughts were far away, her sombre gaze focused on some distant object, 'I had wondered why Mahariel did not come herself to bring this news, but now I think I see. I know that she trusts you, so I will tell you. Rellan is a name.'

'Ah.' _Leliana was right._ 'Is it by any chance... a male name?'

'It is.'

'One of your clan?'

She sighed again. 'He was our master craftsman, and a very experienced hunter. Zathrian told us that Rellan had fallen prey to the werewolves. It seems we were deceived in this, too. Rellan was notably very perceptive of his surroundings, very cautious. They wouldn't have been able to catch him. I did not wish to imagine it then, but I can only assume that he had given Zathrian a good reason to silence him.'

'Wait, he _murdered_ one of your people? Because he found out the truth about the curse?'

'The curse, his curse, was vengeance itself. It burned in his blood, blinded him from justice. Elgar'nan have mercy on him.'

He paused as he tried to take it all in, to see the sense behind it. 'But how could this have anything to do with Lys? She came from another clan didn't she?'

The elf woman smiled wryly then, quite unexpectedly from her sweet face. 'So did he.'

* * *

><p>There she was. It seemed entirely wrong for her to look so vulnerable. He steeled himself for what was bound to be the awkward conversation to end all other awkward conversations, and walked up to the small form whose back was to him. As he got near, however –<p>

'Come no closer!'

She leapt to her feet and whirled around, but was visibly surprised when she saw Alistair standing there.

'Oh.' The elf sank back down onto the log that had been the seat of her reflection. The man took this as an invitation to join her.

'I wanted to be alone.'

'But I don't want you to be.' Their eyes met briefly in the ensuing pause. In that instant, he thought he saw something there, beyond the pain.

'Alistair, I've wanted to tell you, so many times...'

'Then tell me now.'

'You don't understand. I could not share myself with you, because of other ties I had. You know so little about me, because I've tried to keep you away. I didn't want to be pulled in two directions at once.'

'What exactly are you saying?' He braced himself for what he probably didn't want to hear.

'Zathrian not only betrayed my people with his blind hatred, he murdered the man I loved. That I might yet find him, speak with him again, was a hope I hardly let myself nurture. But it never truly faded away.' Her voice cracked with a sob, and she looked away intently.

Alistair stood up, and allowed this admission of hers to sink in for a moment. _So it's true. _He became aware of a growing numbness spreading through his gut, and walked around restlessly to stall it.

'I see. I had no idea until... So I have just been fooling myself, then,' he said keenly. 'Maker, what a _mess._' His whitened knuckles punctuated the last word by slamming into a tree.

Lys now got up herself. 'No,' she said emphatically, '_Ir m'ar isala._'

Her voice rang out, clear and assertive. It sounded almost like a threat, or a curse, to his ears, and it set him shivering.

She closed the space between them in a few curt steps, and pushed her lips firmly to his. This he was definitely not expecting. Her cheeks were damp from concealed tears, her mouth hot and soft. Her greedy hands roamed over his body, grasping at the splints of armour, pulling his hair, eliciting a groan which could have come from either of their throats. It felt like she was everywhere at once – burning his lips, grabbing at his back, pressing against his chest. He drew out of the kiss at last with a pant, their faces still nearly touching, and spoke:

'Why are you doing this to me? You're driving me crazy!'

'I need you.' Short of breath, eyes wild, she had him enthralled. The moon was callously bright, pouring down between the trees to highlight her exotic, unsmiling features, and there was no way he could tear himself away. 'Is that not enough?'

'You... you're grieving. Lys, please...' She continued to assault him with kiss after desperate kiss, but he made no retreat.

'Not like this,' he breathed, but as his plea fell on deaf ears he tried to grab a hold of her.

She was possessed by passion, and dextrously outmanoeuvred him, ducking down and slipping effortlessly behind him. Before he barely had a chance to react, she was reaching around his waist for his belt buckle. As her full intentions dawned on him, he couldn't help the overwhelming surge of heat that threatened to take him over, but he turned around to stop her before he lost himself in it.

'Listen to me!' This time he successfully grabbed her wrists, pushing her up against a tree trunk, and he heard her whimper in surprise. 'Listen,' he said more tenderly, 'I have wanted this so much, and I want to comfort you, but I will not be used.'

At this, she truly broke down. Those eyes, aflame with raw pain, sealed themselves shut with tears anew, her lovely face screwed up in grief as her forehead sank against his chest. Great gasping sobs wracked her small frame, and he was humbled by what he had done with just a few words. He slowly released her slender wrists, immediately regretting his use of force against her.

'Lys, my love...'

He gathered her into his arms, and after some moments gently guided her to the ground to lie side by side. Theirs were the only sounds to disturb the peaceful night, for a time – Alistair saying her name over and over, and Lys' fitful weeping breaths.

He did not know how long they spent like that, he stroking her golden head, she resting against him, eventually finding a measure of calm once more. The moon was well along on its nightly voyage when he felt her stir. He had been enjoying the simplicity of this more than he would have enjoyed it if she had had her way, here in the forest, or so he imagined presently. His inexperience, from which stemmed an awkwardness that near-paralyzed him in sexual situations, still held him back.

She shifted her head off his chest and looked up at him. His eyes were lightly closed, though she had felt he was awake from his breathing. 'I... must have fallen asleep. But I can remember no dreams.' She sounded soft. Warm. The brusque, hard-edged elf he knew better had not yet returned.

'Do you always dream?' _Curious_.

She hesitated. 'Yes, for as long as I can remember. Every night. The darkspawn don't always feature in them, but I don't sleep many a night without their making an appearance,' she said, with the air of someone whose mind was partially focused elsewhere. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.

She propped herself up and rubbed her rheumy eyes, and for the first time in as long as he'd known her, she looked ashamed. She seemed to be avoiding looking at him, her eyes downcast. He watched her closely as she scratched a pointed ear embarrassedly and hoisted herself onto her feet. It was endearing – and he could utterly relate to it.

'Before we go back to camp,' he began, 'I just want to say: that was the best not-sex I have ever had.'

He almost got a smile with that. Almost. 'O, Mythal. I'm sorry. I... Well. I don't know what to say, really.' Since she couldn't articulate a proper ending for that sentence, she set about collecting up her weapons and fastening them to her leathers wordlessly.

'I think I should tell you,' he ventured, really hoping she wouldn't take this badly, 'That I already went to Lanaya and secured the treaty with the Dalish. I hope it wasn't bold of me to do so. I thought that they ought to know right away, and you... well, I wanted to do this one thing for you...'

His last couple of words trailed off against the touch of a single finger to his lips. 'It sounds like you're apologising for doing me a favour. You've no idea how relieved I am.'

'I could say the same!'

'How did she take it?'

'Surprisingly well, actually. It occurred to me how foolish it was to walk into a camp of experienced elven hunters bearing bad news but I tried to focus on the whole the-werewolf-curse-is-over part.' He waved his hands in the air for emphasis.

'I'll meet with them tomorrow before we pack up. They will expect no less. Come on,' she said, taking his hand suddenly, 'Let's not give the others too much time to speculate.' He began to blush as he interpreted her words and allowed himself to be lead.

Upon reaching the clearing they saw that it was Sten and Zevran keeping vigil. Before they were in earshot, she stopped to say something.

'Alistair,' she drew out the syllables of his name as if an idea had just occurred to her, 'Would you like to share my tent tonight?' His eyebrows arched upwards in confusion and suspicion. 'Just to sleep,' she hastily added, 'I would appreciate your company.'

'Ah. How could I refuse,' his smile creased his hazel eyes, and they shone with an irresistible warmth. She suddenly looked very sad. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and they walked together up to the campfire.

'Oh ho!' Exclaimed Zevran, before they were close enough for him to see her expression, 'So you return, safe and in much better spirits, I trust?'

'Yes, Zevran, thank you for your concern.' In spite of everything, a shadow of a smirk stole across her face; the two of them returning late at night, hand in hand no less, to a camp guarded by a lewd Antivan and an indifferent Qunari, made a priceless tableau. Zevran was positively grinning. Alistair was simply avoiding all eye contact. 'Good night,' she said.

'Good night, my fair Wardens.'

To Alistair's intense relief, Zevran scarcely batted an eyelid when Lys led the man to her tent, right past him and the Qunari.

However, 'Hah, I knew it! Cristiana owes me five silvers!' were naturally the first words out of Zevran's mouth a moment after they were inside. His next remark was indubitably aimed at Sten, though they could no longer see: 'And from you, no comment at all?'

'No.'

'You, my friend, are no fun.'

* * *

><p>And just like that they were alone together again, in a very confined and intimate setting. It was more than he would have dared believe, before today. The light from the campfire flickered mutedly through the hide tent walls, softly illuminating them as they knelt facing each other. On hearing the brief interplay from outside, they shared a coy laugh.<p>

'I think he only showed restraint out of respect for my... situation,' she said softly, barely more than whispering.

'I know, I think we got off extremely lightly, for Zevran.'

'Just wait till tomorrow.'

'Yeeess...'

He tried not to think about that, and as she began stripping down to her linen underclothes, right there in front of him, the troubling thought was pushed out of his mind altogether. Expending great mental effort he spurred himself into undressing as well, rather than gawking like a pubescent Chantry boy. Lys' Dalish armour took considerably less time to remove than his own splintmail, and after she had finished she moved over to him to assist him. He tried to concentrate only on the buckles and straps that were the most easily reachable and not on the mostly exposed elf who was attending the hard to reach places. With everything eventually unfastened and the underlying chainmail pulled off him, she crept under the wolf pelts and unabashedly watched as he took off the cloth padding that made up his arming clothes, her head propped up on one elbow. Once he had shed everything but his undershirt and braies, he joined her under the covers. Lying on his side, he was hesitant to reach out and hold her, fearing to overstep some boundary in their state of undress; yet he lay close enough that the air between them grew warm rather quickly.

'You're always blushing, Alistair,' she touched the apple of his cheek, 'It makes me feel like I cause you great discomfort. Or is it simply the thought of the teasing to come?'

'Always?' He sounded a little scandalised. 'You don't cause me – I mean, it's not a bad thing, really. It's just what happens. Just when I'm around you,' he added, gazing at her wide-set eyes. They were what gave her mostly unremarkable face a mysterious, almost feline quality. He studied her face, wanting to crystallise every detail in his memory. Her nose was straight yet not very defined, with her _vallaslin _extending from the main pattern on her forehead down the centre of it; her mouth was very narrow and neat, with lips slightly puckered, as if her Creators had deliberately and lovingly placed it just there. To him, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he felt compelled to tell her so.

'Maker's breath, but you're beautiful. I am a lucky man.'

She scoffed at this. 'You flatter me. There's no need.'

'But I mean it.'

She kissed him, lingering on his lower lip as she pulled away.

'I suppose you are entitled to your own opinion.'

'You're so... unaffected,' he laughed, 'I love that about you. You always say what you truly mean. Would that more people were like you.'

'Most of my people are like me, I think. I find it despicable how dishonest humans can be. Betrayers like Zathrian are a great aberration among the Dalish.' She said all this without spite, just as if it were a matter of fact.

Even so, Alistair was wary of the direction in which this talk was heading and racked his brains for a way to avert it. He wanted to know more about her past with Rellan, but the last thing he wanted was to upset her now by poking at freshly opened wounds. He also didn't think she would commend him for wheedling that piece of information out of Lanaya.

She closed her moss-green eyes. He panicked.

'Hold me.'

That, he could deal with just fine. He slipped his arms around her gratefully, and she drew up against his body, her head bowed into his collarbone. Naturally, he felt self-conscious about this arrangement, especially as all she had to do was shift only a little and she would feel his arousal against her knees; but, as it was, her shins rested against the tops of his thighs in a way that he couldn't deny felt extremely comfortable. Her skin was a marvel to touch, mellifluous and deliciously smooth, though interspersed with the occasional scar. He could feel the edge of one where his hand rested on her shoulder blade.

'I have missed this,' she whispered into his chest, barely audibly. He closed his eyes now too, and wished for a dreamless night for them both. _Now that would be perfect._

* * *

><p>Lys awoke. The first thing she became aware of was how pleasantly warm and rested she felt. Then she felt someone asleep next to her, and her eyes snapped open. <em>Alistair<em>? Suddenly the explanation flooded into her waking brain, and she lay there simply recalling everything. She had invited him to sleep with her. And then it hit her – Rellan was dead. With this realisation, warmth evaporated from her surroundings, colour drained away. The tent wall above her became an indistinct blankness, a wet blur. Her eyes may as well have been shut for all she saw, and when she tried to close them they stung brutally, so she stopped trying.

Still and silent, she allowed the tears to brim over and escape, insensitive to their sweeping along her cheeks. One ran into her ear, making her whole body shiver. The man in her bed, whose steady breathing was one of the few things that penetrated her envelope of sadness, brought little comfort. Part of her even wished that he was Rellan instead, and she despised herself for it. She wanted to be able pretend that the news of his death was untrue, but it was futile. Her fanciful dream of seeing him again had been crushed, and crushed was exactly how she felt.

_Elgar'nan take these damned Keepers. _She had seen not seventeen winters when Keeper Marethari had discovered their relationship and sent him away, and she had had no knowledge of the world beyond where the clan travelled. The fact that he had been alive, _with_ _that clan_, all this time was a bitter revelation. Had she known, she would have left to find him, but instead she carried on with her life, never knowing what had become of him. All Lys had known was that Marethari had talked with him, and then he was gone. She was powerless in the face of her elder's stubborn nature, and no amount of pleading or threatening to leave would sway her to bring him back or even tell Lys where he had gone. _Always thinking she knew what was best._

To say that Lys had been very angry would be understating it by a lot. She had trusted the Keeper utterly, looked up to her with more respect, and of course distance, than she did her mother figure, Ashalle. It felt like they shared an unspoken understanding, a comprehension of which Ashalle was not possessed. When it had happened, something in her changed. She was angry and reticent for a very long time afterwards, but in the end she realised that she was only hurting herself. There weren't many elves her age whom she would have truly called friends, but eventually they were all pushed away by her unresponsiveness. Remarkably, the reason for her anger, and the real reason Rellan had been banished, never became common knowledge. Marethari had assured her she would tell no one, and Lys had told no one, yet their combined silence was not enough to prevent the hushed gossiping that was inevitable in so small a community. Honestly, some of them must have worked it out, but the Keeper would tolerate no rumour-mongering, much less deign to confirm any suspicions, and the whole thing eventually became a taboo subject.

In the couple of years leading up to her becoming a Grey Warden, she had healed and matured greatly. She was spending a lot of time with Tamlen again, and she was grateful for his unassuming, undemanding company. They would spend many an afternoon hunting together, when there would be little need to talk, or they would simply relax in wooded glades, enjoying the nature around them. She knew that he loved her, possibly even wanted to bond with her, but the guilt from not returning his feelings was not enough to make her distance herself from him once more. It was well to have a friend, even if he would never understand what had made her change from the carefree girl he had always known.

They used to play together all the time, competing with each other over which of them was more skilled or could run faster, or secretly poking fun at the stuffy elders. When they got older, the dynamic between them shifted from playful to slightly strained. He began to take risks to impress her, like scouting by himself at night and without anyone's prior knowledge, and boasted about it later. Whenever he did something like that she would tell him it was stupid, and he would stop talking to her for days at a time. The other elf girls started teasing her about spending time with him, and this eventually sparked off concerns that he would try to become romantic. The idea was repugnant: he felt like a brother to her – a childish, boisterous younger brother – though he was the elder of them. In many ways, they had been very similar then, though she had not seen it. She was more sensible than him, but just as headstrong.

It was around that age when they began the proper training to become hunters, and they suddenly had less time to themselves. As such, this was when Rellan began to instruct them on a regular basis, and thus he gradually ceased to be the reclusive, unfamiliar adult that she had always disregarded. But those particular memories were too painful to return to right now.

She figured it would be dawn soon, so it was imminent that she would have to bury her grief and put on a brave face. She didn't know who was on last watch, as they had arranged it amongst themselves in her absence, but she considered poking her head outside the tent to see just in case it was Leliana. Lys knew she would have to make some apology to the bard if they were to avoid further unpleasantness, and she would prefer to get it over with before everyone else was up.

As she was wiping the drying tears on the back of her hand, however, her sleeping partner rolled over rather vigorously and his arm hit her in the face. Having collided unexpectedly with something solid, he woke with a start.

'Mmmff—what—Andraste's flaming sword! I'm sorry—' he bumbled through an apology as her own shock turned into a sudden urge to laugh, '—...not used to sleeping with someone – I mean sleeping next to someone,' he managed to stop himself there, but only because he at last saw her face, which, she guessed, showed more of the effects of her crying than her fleeting amusement.

'Are you alright?' He blinked away the sleep to focus on her properly.

'My nose will be fine,' Lys gave him a tentative smile, vainly hoping it would reassure him enough that he wouldn't push the matter.

'And the... you look like...' She bravely fought down the rising tears and tried to stare directly back at him, wanting to show him that she would be strong. 'I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't mention it.'

He drew her into a gentle embrace, and she picked a spot behind him to stare at diligently instead. Her arms lay limp at her sides as his enveloped her. She took a moment to compose herself before responding.

'I... I will talk to you when I'm ready,' she was winning the struggle against her emotions, and she managed to speak more or less steadily, 'Please accept that. I can't think about...'

'I understand. If that's what you want.'

Whispering 'Thank you,' in his ear, she pulled herself out of his arms and sat up, reaching for her armour. He automatically looked away from her half-naked form as she began to get dressed, and deep down it irked her. _Are human men supposed to be this painfully modest? It's just my body, and not even all of it. _She wondered for a second at his behaviour as she slipped into her leathers. _I want him to know me. I allowed him to become close to me, invited him into my tent. Maybe he doesn't understand that I've given him permission to love me._

Alistair pushed back the fur covers and proceeded to give an almighty yawn, stretching his arms out as far as the limited space allowed. The tent certainly seemed a great deal smaller with him in it. It took her another moment to buckle up her leather skirt and boots before helping him, grabbing his chainmail haubergeon from the heap they had left it in the night before.

'Thanks. You don't have to do that, though,' he said, by now wriggling into his chausses, somewhat inefficiently at that.

'Don't be silly. It's far quicker if I help.'

'True.' He gave her a meek lopsided smile, as if to say he would cooperate.

She held the mail up for him.

'So, when are we leaving?' He inquired, before disappearing momentarily under the metal links.

'Today.' Her voice came out rather stiff.

'That _is_ rather soon. Can't we at least make time to wash before travelling again?' Although not unsympathetic to his plea, Lys was not keen on the idea of staying another day, in light of everything that had happened.

'There are many reasons not to tarry here, Alistair.' Finally she lifted the leather and splint cuirass for him to duck into. He hesitated.

'I know. But there's no point rushing away when we could still make use of the resources here. We haven't stocked up on supplies or made repairs since...'

She pulled the armour roughly over him, her mind already elsewhere. His argument did make sense. She mechanically went through the motions of strapping on his spaulders and the rest, all the while fighting an internal battle. She was loath to have to see one more Dalish from this forsaken clan, but practicalities could not be neglected.

'Fine.' She punctuated her admission with his last buckle. 'We'll tell everyone to be ready to leave after midday. People can prioritise their own restocking and washing as they see fit.' With this, she turned on her heel and strode out into the camp, leaving him quite at a loss as he heard her bark out the morning's orders.


End file.
